BALZAC 


Translated,  with  Notes,  by 
WILFRID    THORLEY 


BALZAC 


BY 


SMILE    FAGUET 


or  THE  ACAD£MIE  FRAJJJAISE 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

1914 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER    I 


PAGE 

HIS  LIFE  .  1 


CHAPTER    II 
HIS  GENERAL  IDEAS       .....         33 

CHAPTER    III 
HIS  GENERAL  VIEW  OF  MANKIND        .'  .49 

CHAPTER    IV 
HIS  ART  AND  ITS  MAKE-UP     .  .  .  .74 

CHAPTER    V 
HIS  CHARACTERS  ...  .92 

CHAPTER    VI 
HIS  TASTE 1G4 

CHAPTER    VII 
HIS  STYLE  .......       195 

CHAPTER    VIII 

BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      .  .  .  .219 

INDEX  259 


2081468 


BALZAC 


HIS    LIFE 

HONORE  BALZAC,  who  subsequently  assumed 
the  name  of  Honore  de  Balzac,  was  born  at 
Tours  on  the  16th  of  May  (Saint  Honore's  Day) 
1799.  His  father,  Fra^ois  Balssa,  had  very 
early  changed  his  name  to  Balzac  ;  he  was 
born  at  Nougairie,  in  the  departement  of  the 
Tarn,  in  1746.  Honore's  grandfather  went  by 
the  name  of  Balssa,  and  farmed  land  in  the 
parish  of  Nougairie  ;  his  mother's  name  was 
Laure  Sallambier,  and  she  was  born  at  Paris 
in  1778.  This  duality  of  strain  in  Balzac's 
progenitors  frees  the  biographer  from  any  need 
to  go  into  the  question  of  ethnology.  Balzac 
was  not  the  product  of  Touraine,  nor  of  Lan- 
guedoc,  nor  of  Paris  ;  he  was  merely  of  the 
French  breed. 

His  father  was  vigorous,  full-blooded,  a  great 
talker  and  reader,  a  man  of  startling  projects 

A 


2  BALZAC 

and  ideas  (traits  of  character  which  are  again 
to  be  met  with  in  his  son) ;  in  later  life  hardly 
caring  for  anything  save  how  to  prolong  his 
days  so  that  he  might  at  least  rival  Fontenelle.1 
Honore  de  Balzac  has  bestowed  many  of  his 
father's  characteristics  on  Doctor  Benassi,  in 
the  Medecin  de  Campagne. 

M.  Balzac,  the  elder,  had  been,  under  the 
former  regime,  a  lawyer  of  the  humbler  sort 
and  very  obscure.  The  Revolution  doubtlessly 
brought  him  the  shoulder-tap  to  higher  dignity, 
for  we  find  him,  in  1793,  figuring  in  the  Alman- 
ack National  as  municipal  official  and  member 
of  the  general  council  of  the  Commune.  He 
was  then  sent  to  the  frontier  of  the  Nord  as 
director  of  supplies.  In  1797  he  married 
Laure  Sallambier,  whose  father  belonged  to 
the  same  governmental  board.  From  1804  to 
1811  he  was  master  of  the  workhouse  at 
Tours.  From  1798  onward  he  had  been 
occupied  in  the  direction  of  the  almshouses 
at  Tours,  and  in  this  town  Honore  was  born, 
and  the  mot  du  temps  culled  by  Taine — '  It 's  a 
fine  hospital  mushroom  ' — was  probably,  while 

1  Fontenelle  was  a  nephew  of  Corneille.  He  wrote  popular 
scientific  works  of  great  worth,  and  died  a  centenarian  in  1757- 
— TR. 


HIS  LIFE  3 

being  at  the  same  time  an  attempt  at  defining 
his  literary  temperament,  an  allusion  to  his 
place  of  origin.  Balzac's  father  was,  over  and 
above  his  administrative  duties,  second  deputy 
to  the  mayor  of  the  township  of  Tours.  In 
1814  he  re-entered  at  Paris  the  department  of 
supplies  which  had  first  occupied  him  as  direc- 
tor, and  stayed  there  until  his  retirement  in 
1819,  when  he  went  to  live  at  Villeparisis,  and 
later  on  at  Versailles.  He  was  to  live  on  until 
1829,  when  he  passed  away  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
three  years  at  Versailles. 

Honore's  mother,  thirty-two  years  younger 
than  her  husband  and  twenty-one  years  older 
than  her  son,  was  a  highly  intelligent  woman, 
very  witty,  very  pretty,  with  beautiful  eyes,  a 
long  thin  nose,  a  thin  and  rather  tight  lipped 
mouth ;  dry,  masterful,  and  overbearing,  her 
hobby  being  occult  science  and  the  daringly 
metaphysical  authors,  a  bent  which  she  handed 
on  at  one  time  to  her  son.  She  was  to  outlive 
Honore  by  some  years  ;  she  died,  in  1853,  at 
seventy-five  years  of  age.  It  is  generally 
believed  that  Balzac  put  his  mother's  least 
pleasing  traits  into  his  portrait  of  la  Cousine 
Bette. 

Honore,  the  eldest  of  the  children,  had  two 


4  BALZAC 

sisters  and  a  brother.  The  elder  of  his  sisters, 
Laure,  two  years  younger  than  Honore,  was 
the  best  friend  that  he  ever  had  on  this  earth, 
his  confidante  and  good  counsellor ;  and  she 
has  left  behind  for  us  some  infinitely  interesting 
memoirs.  She  became  the  wife  of  M.  Surville. 
The  second,  Laurence,  married  M.  de  Montzaigle 
and  died  quite  young  in  1826.  His  brother, 
after  a  scapegrace  boyhood  and  youth,  emi- 
grated to  America,  where  he  led  a  life  of  hard- 
ship and  died  while  still  comparatively  young. 
Honore's  first  school  was  the  lycee  of  Tours 
which  he  attended  for  some  time  as  a  day 
scholar,  and  a  page  dealing  with  this  experience 
is  to  be  found  in  his  Lys  dans  la  Vallee ;  then — 
though  for  what  reason  I  have  been  unable  to 
discover — he  was  sent  to  the  College  of  Ven- 
dome  in  1807,  he  being  then  nine  years  old. 
The  College  of  Vendome,  very  famous  for  other 
reasons  at  this  time,  was  under  the  direction 
of  the  Oratorians.1  They  were  severe. 
Honore  did  not  take  at  all  kindly  to  study 
properly  so  called  ;  but  he  read  enormously 
everything  on  which  he  could  lay  his  hands, 
and  everything  that  he  could  smuggle  out  of 
the  library.  He  was  looked  upon  as  a  deplor- 

1  A  religious  order  formerly  much  occupied  m  teaching. — TR, 


HIS  LIFE  5 

able  pupil  and  passed  much  of  his  time  in 
detention.  He  wrote  also,  as  the  whim 
prompted  him,  all  manner  of  things,  on  sub- 
jects generally  far  beyond  a  boy  of  his  years. 
Later  on  in  life  he  gave  some  account  of  his 
college  days  in  Louis  Lambert.  The  outcome 
of  all  this  was  a  kind  of  brain  fever  which 
caused  much  alarm.  His  mother  was  sum- 
moned. She  found  him  pale,  thin,  unsettled, 
and  to  all  appearance  in  a  stupor.  His  grand- 
mother cried  out,  '  That 's  how  the  college 
gives  them  back  to  us.'  He  was  taken  away. 
This  was  on  the  22nd  of  August  1813,  he  being 
then  fifteen. 

His  health  mended  rapidly  and  he  entered, 
as  day  scholar,  the  third  class  of  the  lycee  of 
Tours.  In  1814,  his  father  having  been  ap- 
pointed, as  before  mentioned,  director  of  the 
first  division  for  town  supplies  at  Paris,  Honore 
was  sent  to  the  institution  Lepitre  (for  which 
see  also  le  Lys  dans  la  Vallee)  in  the  Marais. 
M.  Lepitre  picked  out  the  young  Honore,  be- 
friended him,  and  acquired  rather  a  strong 
influence  over  the  lad.  M.  Lepitre,  who  had 
risked  his  life  for  the  royal  family  during  the 
Terror,  was  a  strong  Catholic  and  monarchist. 
It  is  quite  possible  that  his  ideas  may  have 


6  BALZAC 

roused  an  answering  echo  in  the  young  man's 
mind. 

His  studies,  never  in  fact  other  than  badly 
done,  having  come  to  an  end,  Honore  entered 
a  lawyer's  office,  that  of  M.  Guyonnet-Merville. 
From  seventeen  to  twenty,  very  active,  he 
was  taken  up  with  legal  procedure,  studied  law, 
and  regularly  attended  the  classes  at  the 
Faculty  of  Letters.  He  was  a  very  needy 
student,  the  very  type  of  the  poor  scholar,  for 
his  father  made  him  no  allowance  whatever. 
Balzac  has  set  that  down  very  carefully  in  la 
Peau  de  Chagrin. 

At  twenty  or  twenty-one  his  father  made 
him  a  dazzling  offer,  a  lawyer  to  whom  M. 
Francois  Balzac  had  once  done  a  good  turn 
offering  to  make  Honore  his  confidential  clerk 
right  away,  and  then,  after  a  short  term  of 
probation,  his  successor,  on  the  very  easiest  of 
terms.  But  Honore  fought  shy  of  the  lawyer  ; 
ever  since  his  college  days,  and  especially  after 
the  classes  at  the  Sorbonne,  he  had  nursed 
literary  ambitions  which  he  could  no  longer 
hold  in  check.  Terrible  domestic  upheavals 
followed  on  his  refusal.  Honore  was  obstinate, 
and  his  mother  inflexible.  His  father  was  less 
so.  He  decided  to  put  the  young  man  to  the 


HIS  LIFE  7 

test.  For  two  years  Honore  lived  alone,  with 
an  allowance  just  sufficient  to  meet  his  bare 
needs,  and  tried  his  luck  at  literature.  For  a 
writer  two  years  of  probation  is  a  ridiculously 
short  period,  but  such  was  the  paternal  decision. 
During  this  time  and  thereafter,  M.  Fran£ois 
Balzac  having  just  been  pensioned  off,  the 
family  was  living  at  Villeparisis. 

Honore,  in  an  attic  in  the  Rue  Lesdiguieres, 
near  the  Arsenal,  worked  furiously  for  two 
years.  He  has  described  with  hardly  a  word 
of  hyperbole  what  a  terrible  life  he  then  led 
in  the  Peau  de  Chagrin  and  in  Albert  Savarus. 
His  determination  was  unflinching.  He  wrote 
to  his  sister  Laure,  '  With  an  assured  income  of 
1500  francs,  I  might  work  for  fame  ;  but  time 
is  needed  for  such  an  undertaking,  and  first  of 
all  I  must  settle  how  to  make  a  living.  All  the 
same  I  shall  not  become  a  lawyer.  Look  on 
me  as  dead  if  ever  I  am  snuffed  out  under  a 
lawyer's  wig.  I  would  rather  be  a  dray-horse 
that  goes  its  thirty  or  forty  rounds  in  an  hour, 
drinks,  eats,  and  sleeps  at  set  times.  And  this 
mechanical  rotation  is  called  life,  this  incessant 
round  !  Laure,  Laure,  my  only  two  wishes 
and  how  immense  they  are  ! — to  be  famous,  and 
to  be  loved,  will  they  ever  be  fulfilled  ?  ' 


8  BALZAC 

He  brought  forth  a  tragedy  which  he  read  to 
a  committee  of  friends,  among  whom  was  that 
M.  Surville  who  was  to  become  his  sister's  hus- 
band. Disapproval  was  unanimous.  Choice 
of  a  new  umpire,  the  elder  M.  Surville,  a 
former  professor,  according  to  some,  or  the 
poet  Andrieux  as  others  say,  resulted  in  a  like 
disapproval  of  even  greater  severity.  What 
did  Honore  conclude  ?  That  he  '  had  no  gift 
for  tragedy,'  and  set  to  work  again. 

However,  as  he  broke  down  from  overwork, 
his  relenting  parents  withdrew  him  to  Ville- 
parisis.  He  worked  on  there,  although  less 
at  ease  and  deprived  of  the  solitude  which  his 
work  required,  and  there  he  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mme.  de  Berny.  Mme.  de  Berny,  the 
daughter  of  a  German  musician  and  instru- 
mentalist to  Marie  Antoinette  by  one  of  her 
chambermaids,  was  born  at  Versailles  in  1777. 
She  was  thus  forty-five  years  old  in  1822,  and 
Honore's  senior  by  twenty-one  years.  She 
had  been  married  at  fifteen  to  Gabriel  de 
Berny,  who  became  an  advisory  judge  at  the 
Royal  Court  at  Paris,  and  had  borne  him 
eight  children;  but  she  did  not  love  her 
husband,  who  was  morose  and  peevish. 
She  became  first  Honore's  friend  and  then 


HIS  LIFE  9 

his  mistress,  her  friendship  for  him  outlasting 
her  life. 

She  fostered  in  him  tkose  Catholic  and 
monarchical  feelings  which  it  seems  quite  likely 
that  he  had  already  conceived ;  she  kept  alive 
his  interest  in  the  bygone  court ;  she  gave 
him  that  liking  for  aristocratic  elegance  which 
he  always  retained  in  spite  of  his  temperament 
driving  him  in  quite  other  directions ;  she  urged 
him  on  to  write;  she  urged  him  on  still  more 
perhaps  to  try  his  hand  in  business,  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  there  is  a  good  deal  of  likeness 
between  Mme.  de  Berny  and  Mme.  de  Warens. 
In  any  case,  Balzac  loved  her  whole-heartedly. 
He  has  said  somewhere,  obviously  thinking  of 
her,  c  A  man's  first  love  should  be  a  woman's 
last ' ;  and  his  works  often  show  us  quite  young 
men  falling  in  love  with  women  already  well 
on  in  life  :  Rubempre  and  Mme.  de  Bargeton, 
Gaston  de  Nueil  and  Mme.  de  Beauseant,  etc. 
This  kind  of  love  in  a  man  points  to  a  certain 
innate  indelicacy  which  it  develops. 

Balzac  took  to  novel-writing,  and  particu- 
larly (like  Rubempre)  to  novel-writing  of  the 
Scott  kind.  He  sought  a  publisher,  and  found 
him,  young,  intelligent,  and  enterprising,  in  the 
person  of  Le  Poitivin,  whom  he  had  probably 


10  BALZAC 

known  in  Paris  during  his  period  of  literary 
prenticeship.  Le  Poitivin  published  him  and 
paid  him.  Balzac  brought  out  in  rapid  suc- 
cession seven  novels  very  hastily  put  together, 
which,  even  on  his  own  showing,  were  quite 
worthless ;  but  he  felt  the  oncoming  of  ideas  ; 
he  felt  himself  ripening,  and  wrote  to  his  sister, 
'  A  little  longer,  and  between  the  me  of  to-day 
and  the  me  of  to-morrow  there  will  be  the 
difference  that  exists  between  the  youth  of 
twenty  and  the  man  of  thirty  years.  I  reflect ; 
my  ideas  gather  strength ;  I  see  that  nature 
has  not  been  niggardly  with  me  in  the  matter 
of  heart  and  head.'  Every  one  has  told  him- 
self as  much ;  but  here  there  was  no  mistake 
about  it. 

However  he  believed  that,  dallying  in  this 
way,  he  was  spending  himself  without  earning 
enough  to  live  on,  and  he  begot  either  from  his 
own  unfortunate  whim  or  that  of  Mme.  de 
Berny  the  notion  of  launching  out  into  busi- 
ness, so  that,  having  made  his  pile  quickly,  he 
might  thereafter  settle  down  to  a  life  of  artistry 
wholly  tranquil  and  secure.  He  quickly  turned 
publisher  with  the  small  capital  that  he  was 
able  to  get  together,  and  especially  with  what 
was  forthcoming  from  Mme.  de  Berny.  He 


HIS  LIFE  11 

failed  completely  in  this  first  attempt  and  got 
into  debt.  In  order  to  run  down  his  money  he 
set  out  on  another  undertaking  with  a  new 
partner  and  came  out  of  it  with  as  little  success. 
In  order  to  extricate  himself,  he  set  up,  along 
with  a  certain  Laurent  and  Mme.  de  Berny,  a 
foundry  for  casting  printer's  type.  The  out- 
come was  equally  disastrous.  In  order  to  save 
her  son  from  bankruptcy,  Mme.  Balzac  sacri- 
ficed her  whole  fortune ;  but  he  was  still 
burdened  with  a  heavy  debt,  for  what  amount 
has  not,  I  believe,  ever  been  known,  and  this 
he  dragged  after  him  until  the  end  of  his  days. 

He  once  more  set  to  work  as  a  writer  with  the 
fury  of  despair.  This  was  in  1829,  the  year 
of  his  father's  death.  Not  for  the  sake  of  rest, 
but  in  order  that  he  might  live  in  purer  air, 
and  in  a  house  of  ampler  room  and  among 
new  surroundings,  Balzac  accepted  at  Fougeres 
the  hospitality  of  M.  de  Pomereul,  who  had 
formerly  been  under  great  obligation  to  his 
guest's  father,  and  there  he  studied  Brittany 
and  the  Bretons.  Hence  his  first  book  worthy, 
and  truly  worthy,  of  attention,  Us  Chouans, 
the  result  of  long  pondering,  and  written  care- 
fully and  slowly. 

He  then  went  back  to  the  home  which  was 


12  BALZAC 

now  at  Versailles,  and  thus,  hard  by  Paris,  he 
tried  to  get  on  to  good  terms  with  those  in  the 
best  society  and  in  the  literary  world.  Mme. 
de  Berny  helped  him  in  this.  She  had  kept 
on  good  terms  with  Sophie  Gay,1  whose  ac- 
quaintance he  made,  as  well  as  that  of  her 
daughter  Delphine,  already  famous,  and  later 
to  become  still  more  so  under  the  name  of  Mme. 
de  Girardin.  He  witnessed,  too,  the  opening 
of  Mme.  de  Bagration's  salon-door  to  welcome 
him.  In  spite  of  his  bulkiness,  which  was 
becoming  marked,  his  ill  manners,  the  com- 
plete ignorance  of  how  to  dress  well  which 
always  marked  him,  and  his  lack  of  wit,  he 
was  liked  on  account  of  his  good  nature,  his 
gaiety,  his  frankness,  and — why  not  say  so, 
since  it  is  a  weakness  of  which  salons  stand  in 
need  ? — his  volubility. 

Among  literary  people  he  knew  Henri 
Monnier,  La  Touche,  and  George  Sand  (the 
last-named,  deeply  interested  by  les  Chouans 
and  la  Physiologic  du  Mariage,  first  paying  him 
a  visit  without  any  preliminary  formality),  the 

1  She  wrote  interesting  novels  now  chiefly  noteworthy  as  side- 
lights on  the  Directoire  and  the  Empire,  and  died  in  1852,  three 
years  before  her  daughter  Delphine.  The  latter  became  the  wife 
of  a  well-known  pamphleteer,  and  wrote  light  verses  and  comedies 
of  worth. — TH. 


HIS  LIFE  13 

Duchess  d'Abrantes  (Mme.  Junot),  who,  under 
the  Empire,  had  been  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful, most  brilliant,  and  most  royally  prodigal 
of  Parisian  women,  and  who,  in  1830,  was 
living  wretchedly  on  the  slender  earnings  of  a 
feeble  but  indefatigable  pen.  We  can  fancy 
how,  next  to  her  father  himself,  who  had  seen 
at  such  close  range  the  military  world  of  the 
Empire,  Mme.  d'Abrantes  was  of  use  to  him 
in  bringing  back  to  life  before  his  gaze  the 
various  personages,  with  their  might  and  their 
meanness,  their  greatness  and  their  weakness, 
as  they  lived  during  the  heroic  period  of  the 
first  Napoleon. 

In  1831  he  got  to  know  Mme.  la  Duchesse  de 
Castries  in  circumstances  which  were  with 
Balzac  of  rather  frequent  occurrence,  as  they 
are,  it  should  be  added,  with  most  men  of 
letters.  The  Duchess  wrote  to  him  anony- 
mously (as  she  did  to  Sainte-Beuve  after  the 
publication  of  Volupte) ;  he  replied ;  a  corre- 
spondence was  set  going,  and  the  Duchess  ended 
by  lifting  her  mask  and  begging  the  writer  to 
come  and  see  her.  The  Duchess  de  Castries 
seems  to  have  been  venturesome,  of  highly 
extravagant  whims,  coquettish,  and,  in  short, 
disposed  to  love  no  one  ardently  except  her 


14  BALZAC 

own  self.  Balzac  was  greatly  taken  with  her. 
For  her  sake  he  became  quite  a  society  man 
during  the  years  1831  and  1832  ;  for  her  sake 
he  gave  more  and  more  parade  to  those  Catholic 
and  legitimist  sentiments  which  had  indeed 
always  been  his  ;  for  her  sake  his  debts  swelled 
rather  than  shrank;  perhaps  it  was  for  her 
sake  also  that  he  offered  himself  as  a  candidate 
to  the  electoral  committee  of  several  wards, 
and  failed  in  all  of  them.  In  obedience  to  a 
summons  from  Mme.  de  Castries  he  joined  her 
at  Aix-les-Bains,  where  he  remained  for  some 
weeks,  and  a  plan  having  been  arranged  for 
travelling  in  Italy,  he  set  out  with  the  lady, 
her  husband,  and  the  Duke  of  Fitz-James,  but 
only  accompanied  them  as  far  as  Geneva,  where 
some  kind  of  a  quarrel  put  an  end  both  to  the 
trip  and  to  his  relations  with  the  Duchess,  and 
brought  about  his  return  to  Paris.  When  the 
Duchess  herself  returned  to  town,  nothing 
further  was  required  of  Balzac,  for  the  sake  of 
due  seemliness,  than  to  put  in  a  few  polite 
appearances  at  the  de  Castries'  drawing-room. 
We  may  be  sure  that  the  Duchesse  de  Langeois 
of  Balzac's  work  derives  from  the  Duchess  de 
Castries. 

1832  saw  the  beginning — epistolary  at  start- 


HIS  LIFE  15 

ing,  but  later  on  of  a  more  material  kind — of 
Balzac's  connection  with  Mme.  Hanska,  since 
his  first  known  letter  to  this  lady  dates  from 
the  first  month  of  the  following  year.  Mme. 
Hanska,  nee  Rezvuszka,  was  a  young  Polish 
woman  of  the  bluest  blood  and  very  wealthy, 
a  great  lover  of  French  literature,  and  much 
taken  with  Balzac's  novels.  Like  Mme.  de 
Castries  and  several  others,  she  wrote  to  Balzac, 
and  first  of  all  a  friendly  correspondence,  and 
then  an  amorous  friendship  sprang  up  between 
them. 

From  1833  to  1837  (and  later,  but  especially 
during  these  four  years)  Balzac  made  many 
prolonged  stays  in  the  provinces,  in  Angoumois, 
Touraine,  Berri  (Issoudan),  Brittany(Guerande), 
Limousin,  Auvergne,  Savoy,  Dauphiny,  and 
Provence.  He  was  fond  of  provincial  France 
as  a  country  where  types  and  characters  re- 
mained whole  without  being  blunted  or  worn 
thin  by  continual  friction,  as  is  the  case  in  the 
larger  towns.  The  outcome  of  these  journeys 
and  long  stays  in  small  towns  was  the  famous 
series  of  novels  classed  together  under  the 
general  title  of  Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Province. 

Towards  1833  his  mother,  being  more  than 
ever  taken  up  with  occult  science,  lured  him 


16  BALZAC 

after  her  along  the  same  track,  and  hence  he 
came  to  deal  with  man's  communication  with 
the  beyond,  and  with  the  power  of  magnetism 
as  shown  in  Ursule  Mirouet  and  Seraphita. 
It  should  be  added  that  no  period  was  more 
crazy  after  occultism  and  all  its  kindred  than 
that  of  Louis  Philippe  :  the  subject  may  be 
fruitfully  studied  in  the  Hierophantes  of  M. 
Fabre  des  Essarts. 

In  the  spring  of  the  same  year  Balzac  first 
met  Mme.  Hanska,  who  had  come  with  her 
husband  to  Neuchatel,  where  Balzac  joined  her. 
He  saw  her  seldom  and  always  in  company, 
but  these  short  glimpses  inspired  him  with  a 
deep  passion  which  continued  growing  almost 
up  to  the  day  of  his  death.  At  the  end  of 
December  he  went  back  to  Switzerland,  M.  and 
Mme.  Hanska  having  settled  down  at  Geneva 
for  some  time,  and  there  he  stayed  for  six 
weeks,  enjoying  her  hospitality,  or  at  least 
seeing  her  a  good  deal.  He  returned  to  Paris 
at  the  beginning  of  February  1834. 

In  1835  Mme.  de  Berny  got  a  judicial  separa- 
tion from  her  husband,  our  only  cause  for  sur- 
prise being  that  she  had  not  done  so  sooner, 
without  casting  any  special  blame,  we  may  add, 
on  Balzac,  with  whom  she  had  now  very  few 


HIS  LIFE  17 

dealings.  In  1836  she  died  at  la  Boulonniere, 
near  Nemours,  at  the  age  of  fifty-eight  years. 
In  spite  of  his  new  passions,  her  death  was  a 
heavy  blow  for  Balzac.  He  often  said  that  she 
was  the  only  woman  that  he  had  ever  loved. 
It  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  fairer  to  say 
that  she  was  the  only  woman  who  had  truly 
loved  him. 

In  the  midst  of  the  romances  which  he  was 
writing  and  the  romances  of  real  life  which  he 
was  beginning  or  just  leaving  behind  him,  the 
business  dealings  at  which  he  was  once  more 
trying  his  hand,  Balzac  turned  his  thoughts 
toward  the  drama  and  journalism.  In  1839  he 
submitted  VEcole  des  Menages  to  the  management 
of  the  Renaissance,  by  whom  it  was  refused. 
In  1840  he  started  the  Revue  Parisienne,  in 
which  he  was  very  hard  on  Sainte-Beuve, 
La  Touche,  Eugene  Sue,  Thiers,  and  even  Victor 
Hugo.  The  Revue  Parisienne,  lacking  the 
sinews  of  war,  survived  only  three  months. 
In  1840  he  brought  out  Vautrin  at  the  Porte- 
Saint-Martin  theatre,  and  this  again,  since  it 
was  bad,  was  coldly  received,  and  suppressed 
after  the  first  performance  owing  to  Frederic 
Lemaitre  having  made  himself  up  as  Louis 
Philippe.  Balzac  attributed  his  disaster  to  the 


18  BALZAC 

forelock  of  Frederic  Lemaitre, '  a  disaster  which 
a  barber's  tongs  might  have  set  right,'  and  the 
animosity  of  the  newspaper  men.  '  Does  the 
author  put  it  down  to  journalism  ?  If  so  he 
can  only  congratulate  it  for  having  thus  justi- 
fied by  its  conduct  all  that  he  said  of  it  else- 
where.' This  is  an  allusion  to  his  portraits  of 
journalists  and  his  pictures  of  the  press  world 
in  the  Illusions  perdues. 

In  1841,  at  the  Odeon,  he  produced  les 
Ressources  de  Quinola,  not  at  all  a  bad  piece, 
which  fell  completely  flat. 

During  the  same  year  M.  Hanska  died,  and 
Balzac  thought  he  might  now  achieve  the  happy 
consummation  of  his  sentimental  life.  But 
nothing  came  of  it.  For  reasons  which  remain 
hidden  from  us,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  we  may 
now  read  the  letters  of  Balzac  to  Mme.  Hanska, 
the  projected  marriage  was  indefinitely  post- 
poned. 

In  1843  Balzac  presented  at  the  Gaiety  a 
gloomy  drama  entitled  Pamela  Giraud,  which 
once  more  was  a  complete  failure.  The  same 
year  Mme.  Hanska  took  up  her  residence  at  St. 
Petersburg,  in  order  to  bring  out  her  daughter 
in  Russian  society.  Balzac  went  there  to  see 
her,  stayed  as  her  guest  for  three  months,  was 


HIS  LIFE  19 

charmed  again  by  the  lady  and  by  his  first  impact 
with  things  Russian,  and  returned  to  Paris  to 
take  up  once  more  his  frightful  burden  of  work. 

In  1845  Mme.  Hanska,  having  betrothed  her 
daughter  to  the  Count  Mniszech,  set  out  for 
Dresden  with  them,  and  was  there  joined  by 
Balzac,  who,  ardently  enamoured  of  all  three, 
accompanied  them  to  Marseilles,  Geneva,  Rome, 
Naples,  and  came  back  to  Paris  in  despair  at 
having  to  leave  them. 

In  the  following  March  he  returned  to  Italy 
to  see  his  friends  and  stayed  there  some  weeks, 
then  coming  back  to  Paris,  which  he  again  left 
in  August  for  Wiesbaden,  where  Mme.  Hanska 
was  then  staying,  and  whence,  after  a  fort- 
night's visit,  he  once  more  returned  to  the 
capital. 

Towards  the  close  of  1846  Mme.  Hanska 
visited  Paris  in  order  to  consult  the  doctors 
about  her  health,  which  was  much  shaken, 
and  there  she  remained  for  several  weeks. 

In  1847  Balzac  went  as  far  afield  as  Vierz- 
chownia  in  Ukraine,  in  order  to  visit  Mme. 
Hanska  on  her  estate  there.  He  was  once  more 
perfectly  happy,  made  a  tour  in  Southern 
Russia,  admired  Kiev,  studied  the  customs  of 
the  country,  was  much  interested  in  the  monu- 


20  BALZAC 

ments,  and  once  more  greatly  enjoyed  his  role 
of  tourist  and  observer.  He  was  back  again 
in  Paris  at  the  beginning  of  1848. 

He  brought  out  there,  at  last  with  success, 
la  Mardlre,  which  was  played  at  the  Theatre 
Historique,  and  offered  to  the  Theatre  Francais 
and  elsewhere  his  best  piece,  Mercadet  le 
Faiseur,  which  was  only  to  see  the  footlights, 
accompanied  by  hearty  applause,  after  its 
author  had  passed  away. 

In  the  month  of  September  he  went  back  to 
Russia.  He  was  very  ill  there,  his  chest  be- 
coming diseased,  as  his  heart  had  already  been 
for  a  long  time.  He  dragged  along  for  eighteen 
months,  devotedly  cared  for  but  unable  to  get 
better.  Slightly  improved  in  1850,  he  doubt- 
lessly begged  Mme.  Hanska  to  bestow  herself 
in  marriage.  She  consented  ;  but  for  marriage 
with  a  foreigner  the  Emperor's  permission  was 
necessary,  and  this  was  granted  only  on  con- 
dition that  Mme.  Hanska  gave  up  all  her 
belongings  to  her  children.  She  agreed  to  do 
so  on  condition  that  they  allowed  her  an  in- 
come. She  married  Balzac  on  the  14th  of 
March  1850,  eighteen  years  having  passed  by 
since  the  connection  had  first  begun. 

No  sooner  was  he  married  than  Balzac  again 


HIS  LIFE  21 

fell  ill,  and  found  it  impossible  to  bring  home 
his  wife  with  him  to  Paris  before  the  end  of 
May.  He  was  extremely  weak.  A  letter  (of 
which  considerable  portions  were  published  in 
the  Intermediaire  des  Chercheurs  et  Curieux  for 
the  30th  of  November  1912)  was  written  by  Mme. 
de  Balzac  on  the  9th  of  May  to  her  daughter, 
Mme.  de  Mniszech,  the  mother  being  then  in 
a  town  on  the  borders  of  Russia  (since  she  still 
had  Galicia  before  her),  but  already  within  the 
domain  of  Austria  (since  there  was  a  Russian 
consul  there).  '  I  am  at  the  Hotel  de  Russie,' 
she  says.  '  Our  dear  good  B.,  in  spite  of  his 
painful  condition,  is  running  all  over  the  place. 
Our  Russian  consul  is  exceedingly  kind  to  him. 
He  accompanies  him  everywhere,  making 
everything  easy  for  him.  Nothing,  neither  our 
chests  nor  our  personal  luggage,  is  to  -be 
opened  !  Think  what  a  frightful  loss  of  time 
that  will  save  us,  and  how  much  annoyance  we 
shall  be  spared  !  Don't  worry,  my  dear  angel, 
about  the  Galician  roads,  which  are  both 
excellent  and  without  risk  ;  we  shall  moreover 
travel  both  day  and  night.  .  .  .  My  husband 
has  just  come  back  ;  he  has  carried  through  all 
his  business  with  admirable  speed ;  we  set 
out  to-day.  I  had  no  idea  what  an  adorable 


22  BALZAC 

creature  he  is ;  after  knowing  him  for  seven- 
teen years,  I  daily  discover  in  him  new  qualities 
of  which  I  have  been  hitherto  unconscious. 
If  only  he  might  have  his  health  !  Speak  about 
it,  I  beg  of  you,  to  M.  Knothe.  You  have  no 
idea  what  he  went  through  last  night.  I  hope 
that  his  native  air  may  do  him  good ;  but  if 
this  hope  should  be  denied  me,  I  shall  deserve 
your  pity,  I  assure  you.  It  is  so  good  to  be 
thus  loved  and  befriended.  There  is  also 
something  very  much  the  matter  with  his  poor 
eyes.  I  don't  know  what  it  all  means,  and  I 
am  at  times  very  anxious  and  downhearted. 
I  hope  to  send  you  better  news  to-morrow,  when 
I  will  write  again.  .  .  .  Our  good  B.  .  .  .  kisses 
your  little  hands  and  begs  you  not  to  worry, 
that  he  will  be  all  right  as  soon  as  he  touches 
French  soil  .  .  .  etc.'  At  last  they  reached 
Paris.  Their  return  was  marked  by  a  lugubri- 
ous incident :  Balzac  had  made  ready  for  his 
wife  a  luxuriously  furnished  house  in  the  Rue 
Fortunee.  Bringing  her  home  in  the  evening, 
he  found  it  lit  up  throughout,  but  was  unable 
to  get  in.  He  was  obliged  to  send  for  a  lock- 
smith, and  an  entry  was  at  last  effected.  The 
servant  left  in  charge  of  the  house  had  suddenly 
gone  mad  some  hours  before. 


HIS  LIFE  23 

After  some  weeks  of  comparatively  good 
health,  Balzac  was  once  more  stricken  down 
and  unable  to  leave  his  bed.  He  was  devotedly 
nursed  by  his  mother,  Mme.  Honore  de  Balzac 
having  left  his  bedside,  and  perhaps  the  house, 
for  what  reason  has  never  been  made  clear, 
though  it  is  thought  that  since  their  return  to 
Paris  her  feelings  towards  her  husband  had 
begun  to  cool. 

Balzac  died  on  the  18th  of  August  1850. 
He  had  a  royal  funeral.  The  Minister  of  the 
Interior,  Victor  Hugo,  Alexander  Dumas,  and 
Sainte-Beuve  (the  last-named  in  spite  of  an  old 
enmity)  were  his  pall-bearers.  Victor  Hugo 
pronounced  an  eloquent  discourse  at  his  grave- 
side. 

Balzac  was  not  a  member  of  the  French 
Academy.  He  had  offered  himself  as  a  candi- 
date in  1839,  while  still  young  for  this  sort  of 
distinction,  but  already  at  the  height  of  his 
fame  ;  but  he  withdrew  to  make  way  for  Victor 
Hugo.  In  1841  he  made  further  overtures  for 
admission,  but  again  withdrew.  In  1847  he 
came  forward  to  fill  the  vacant  chair  of  Bal- 
lanche  and  won  but  two  votes  in  his  favour, 
those  of  Victor  Hugo  and  M.  de  Pongerville, 
as  the  former  has  borne  witness.  In  1849  he 


24  BALZAC 

came  forward  for  the  two  vacancies  caused 
by  the  deaths  of  Chateaubriand  and  Vatout, 
receiving  but  two  votes  on  each  occasion. 

In  his  earliest  years  he  was  small  but  well- 
shaped,  with  a  fine  forehead,  fine  chestnut  eyes, 
short  curly  hair,  cheeks  and  chin  rounded, 
thick  and  humoursome  lips,  a  short  nose  rather 
hard  in  line  with  wide  and  mobile  nostrils. 
Later  on,  in  later  youth,  he  grew  stout,  with  a 
thick  neck,  a  prominent  stomach,  and  a  double 
chin ;  spoiling  his  looks  by  letting  his  hair 
grow  long  and  leaving  it  unkempt,  with  a  thick 
and  drooping  moustache.  He  kept  always  his 
very  fine  wide  brow,  high  and  rounded,  and  his 
fine  eyes,  not  very  large,  but  well-formed  and 
full  of  sprinkled  gold,  and  his  glance  sparkling 
with  intelligence,  frankness,  and  curiosity.  His 
manners  were  awkward,  abrupt,  and  without 
grace  ;  his  behaviour  at  once  pretentious  and 
easy-going.  He  was  absolutely  wanting  in  all 
that  is  known  as  distinction. 

His  character  was  likewise  commonplace. 
He  was  without  moral  elegance,  without  deli- 
cacy, I  will  not  go  the  length  of  saying  without 
morality,  for  it  is  obvious  that  he  was  honest 
in  his  business  dealings,  in  which  he  was  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning ;  but  I  should  say 


HIS  LIFE  25 

quite  without  any  tenderness  of  conscience. 
The  easy-going  way  in  which  he  accepted  Mme. 
de  Berny's  money  was  not  above-board,  and 
it  seems  very  likely  that  his  fidelity  to  Mme. 
Hanska  was  prompted  almost  as  much  by  the 
lady's  fortune  as  by  her  person,  however 
worthy  she  may  otherwise  have  been  of  it. 

He  had  that  profound  egotism — shared  alike 
by  almost  all  artists,  but  with  him  quite  open 
and  unashamed,  and  beyond  his  power  either 
to  cloak  or  to  keep  under — that  consists  in 
looking  on  everything  as  insignificant  when 
set  beside  his  own  work.  One  day  Jules 
Sandeau,  at  that  time  his  secretary,  coming 
home  from  attending  his  sister's  funeral, 
Balzac  asked  kindly  after  his  family,  and  then, 
the  reply  hardly  having  reached  his  ears,  went 
on,  4  Come  along,  that 's  enough  for  that  sub- 
ject, let 's  get  back  to  something  serious.  Old 
Goriot  .  .  .'  And  he  never  outgrew  this  kink. 
One  rather  important  character  in  his  works  is 
Doctor  Bianchon.  When  near  his  death  he 
said,  '  Fetch  Bianchon ;  there  's  nobody  but 
Bianchon  can  pull  me  through.'  He  was 
jealous  of  his  rivals,  even  sometimes  of  those 
that  were  dead.  Sainte-Beuve  having  pub- 
lished an  article  on  Loyson,  whose  poetry  was 


26  BALZAC 

well  worth  being  brought  back  to  light,  he 
wrote,  '  The  mind  of  M.  Sainte-Beuve  is  of  the 
bat  order.  .  .  .  His  soft  and  yielding  phrase, 
cowardly  and  without  sinew,  plays  round  about 
his  subjects ;  he  prowls  in  the  darkness  like  a 
jackal ;  he  goes  into  the  graveyards,  and  carries 
off  respectable  corpses  that  have  done  nothing 
to  the  author  that  he  should  disturb  them  in 
this  way,  such  as  the  Loysons,  the  .  .  .' 
Balzac  was  jealous  of  Loyson,  just  as  Sainte- 
Beuve  was  jealous  of  Chateaubriand. 

But  he  had  some  qualities  that  were  of  quite 
a  high  order.  Sainte-Beuve  said  of  him,  in 
accusing  him  of  a  business  transaction  which  it 
is  now  almost  certain  never  took  place,  4  This 
mixing  up  of  glory  with  gain  makes  me  grow 
weary.'  Now,  if  this  be  found  wearisome,  it  is 
the  mixing  that  must  be  blamed.  He  was  fond 
of  money ;  but  he  also  loved  fame,  and  it  was 
never  entirely  for  the  one,  and  it  was  always  for 
the  other  as  well  that  he  laboured.  He  was 
fond  of  telling  how  when  in  Russia,  a  lady's 
companion,  as  she  brought  in  the  tea,  heard 
her  hostess  say,  '  Ah  well !  You  say  then,  M. 
Balzac  .  .  .'  and  dropped  her  tray  in  her 
astonishment.  '  I  know  what  glory  is,'  he 
would  add,  with  real  happiness.  As  a  matter 


HIS  LIFE  27 

of  fact  the  tray  would  doubtlessly  have  fallen 
just  as  promptly  for  Frederic  Soulie  ;  x  but  the 
saying  is  not  therefore  the  less  agreeable  and 
shows  the  speaker  in  a  kindly  light. 

Again,  he  was  certainly  good,  generous,  and 
straightforward.  He  kept  in  his  service  for 
a  long  time  a  secretary,  since  then  become 
famous,  who  did  nothing  whatever,  and  was 
wholly  undeserving  of  his  indulgence.2  His 
disposition  was  homely  and  jovial,  though  it 
would  be  better  to  say  that  it  was  ardent :  he 
could  be  wrathful,  carried  away  by  frightful 
fits  of  temper,  and  still  oftener  by  grossly 
vulgar  merriment,  jocularity,  and  enormous 
outbursts  of  laughter.  It  was  said  of  Fonten- 
elle,  4  You  have  never  laughed  !  '  4 1  have 
never  laughed,'  was  his  answer ;  '  that  is  to 
say,  I  have  never  gone  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  ! '  Bal- 
zac, on  the  other  hand,  never  smiled ;  but  he 
was  uttering  his  Ha !  Ha  !  Ha  !  nearly  all 
the  time.  He  belonged  to  the  common  stock, 
both  in  the  good  and  the  evil  sense  of  the  term, 
from  his  head  to  his  heels. 

1  Frederic  Soulie  (1800-47),  a  pleasant  writer  with  a  very  loose 
style  and   no  pretensions  to  profundity,  whose  novels  are  now 
forgotten. — TR. 

2  This  seems  to  be  another  reference  to  Jules  Sandeau,  George 
Sand's  first  lover,  and  the  author  of  the  classic  Roche  aux  Mouettes. 
— Tn. 


28  BALZAC 

His  aristocratic  opinions,  as  so  often  happens 
with  political  opinions,  were  in  complete  con- 
tradiction to  his  temperament.  He  was  of  the 
common  folk,  and  held  aristocratic  opinions, 
just  as  Beranger,  on  the  contrary,  wanted  to 
be  of  the  common  folk,  and  succeeded  in  reach- 
ing them,  though  he  had  both  the  temperament 
and  the  character  of  a  careful  middle-class  man, 
shrewd,  skilful,  cunning,  frugal  and  fastidious 
in  his  tastes. 

He  had  comrades  rather  than  friends.  Mme. 
de  Girardin  liked  him  well  enough,  notwith- 
standing that  at  times  his  blundering  proved 
rather  awkward  for  her  ;  Gautier  regarded  him 
with  that  amiable  and  majestic  condescension 
beyond  which  his  friendships  never  led  him  ; 
Hugo  loved  him  admiringly,  and  knew  more- 
over how  to  keep  him  at  arm's-length  ;  George 
Sand,  who  always  admired  him,  whom  he  liked, 
and  whose  portrait  he  has  drawn  finely  in  his 
Mademoiselle  Maupin,  found  him  too  Rabe- 
laisian, and  said  to  him, '  You  are  a  lewd  fellow,' 
to  which  he  replied,  '  You  are  a  beast,'  her 
rejoinder  being,  c  I  'm  well  aware  of  it.'  I  find 
only  Henri  Monnier,  Leon  Gozlan,  Mery,  and 
some  smaller  fry,  with  whom  he  had  regular 
and  close  dealings. 


HIS  LIFE  29 

He  was  not  disliked  by  Lamartine,  which  is 
singularly  to  his  honour.  The  great  poet  of 
the  ideal  thus  speaks  of  him :  '  Balzac  was 
standing  [at  Mme.  de  Girardin's]  before  the 
fireplace  of  this  beloved  salon  where  I  have  seen 
pass  and  pose  [I  think  that  was  put  in  quite 
guilelessly]  so  many  remarkable  men  and 
women.  He  was  not  tall,  although  the  bright- 
ness of  his  face  and  the  mobility  of  his  figure 
made  it  impossible  to  reckon  his  height,  for  it 
wavered  with  his  thought ;  there  seemed  to  be 
a  gap  between  him  and  the  ground ;  now  he 
would  stoop  down  to  earth  as  though  to  gather 
up  a  sheaf  of  ideas,  and  then  he  would  draw 
himself  up  on  tiptoe  in  order  to  follow  the  flight 
of  his  thought  towards  infinity.  He  broke 
off  for  no  more  than  a  minute  on  my  account 
[he  was  not  in  the  least  shy ;  he  had  not  even 
so  much  diffidence  as  befits  politeness] ;  he 
was  carried  away  by  his  conversation  with 
M.  and  Mme.  de  Girardin.  He  gave  me  a 
lively,  searching,  and  gracious  glance,  of 
extreme  benevolence.  I  drew  near  him  to 
shake  his  hand,  and  saw  that  we  understood 
one  another  straight  away  and  without  further 
need  of  words  ;  he  was  in  full  stream,  and  could 
not  spare  the  time  for  a  stoppage.  I  sat  down 


30  BALZAC 

and  he  went  on  with  his  monologue,  as  though 
my  presence  had  roused  him  into  new  life 
instead  of  interrupting  him.  The  listening 
which  I  gave  to  his  speech  afforded  me  the 
opportunity  of  observing  his  figure  in  its 
everlasting  undulation.  He  was  fat,  solid, 
square  below  and  across  the  shoulders  ;  neck, 
chest,  body,  buttocks,  and  limbs  all  strongly 
built,  with  much  of  the  stoutness  of  Mirabeau, 
but  without  over- weight ;  there  was  so  much 
of  soul  in  it  all,  that  it  was  borne  lightly  and 
joyously,  like  a  supple  envelope,  and  in  nowise 
as  a  burden ;  his  arms  gesticulated  easily ;  he 
talked  as  though  he  were  an  orator  holding 
forth.  .  .  .'  We  know  that,  under  the  name 
of  Canalis,  Balzac  has  sketched  a  very  beautiful 
and  kindly  portrait  of  Lamartine. 

He  was  a  hard  worker  ;  we  need  not  call  him 
an  indefatigable  one,  since  it  is  obvious  that 
fatigue  did  overcome  him,  and  that,  with  a 
strong  constitution  and  born  to  reach  his  eighty 
years,  like  his  father  before  him,  he  yet  died  at 
fifty.  But  he  was  an  arduous  and  powerful 
workman.  He  wrote  nearly  a  hundred  works 
(some  of  them  short)  in  twenty-five  or  twenty- 
six  years,  and  did  so,  not,  as  has  been  said,  like 
4  a  force  of  nature  '  which  always  performs  the 


HIS  LIFE  31 

like  function,  but  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand 
projects,  a  thousand  enterprises,  and  a  thousand 
plans  which  bubbled  up  incessantly  from  his 
seething  brain ;  in  the  midst  of  a  hundred 
journey  ings,  and  always  in  the  grasp  of  the 
harassing  cares  and  deadly  embarrassments  of 
his  everlasting  and  eternally  renewed  debts. 
His  work  was  usually  done  by  night ;  he  some- 
times worked  both  day  and  night,  not  going 
out  and  hardly  stirring  from  his  writing-table  ; 
keeping  himself  going,  and  unfortunately  spur- 
ring himself  on  with  innumerable  cups  of  black 
coffee.  La  Cousine  Bette  was  thus  written  in 
six  weeks,  which  works  out  at  ten  pages  a  day, 
or  (more  likely)  from  seven  to  eight  hours  of 
work  per  day,  which  is  a  tremendous  rate  for 
those  who  know  what  one  hour  of  literary  work 
really  means.  He  corrected,  or  rather  aug- 
mented, without  end.  He  required  five,  six,  or 
seven  proofs  from  the  printer.  It  often  hap- 
pened that  the  manuscript  which  he  delivered 
to  the  compositors  was  for  him  nothing  more 
than  a  rough  outline  which  he  filled  in  or  a 
square  of  canvas  on  which  he  embroidered. 
Like  Victor  Hugo  (as  we  know  from  the  study 
of  his  manuscripts),  the  reading  of  his  text 
inspired  and  suggested  his  finest  traits ;  but 


32  BALZAC 

what  inspired  Hugo  was  his  own  script,  whereas 
with  Balzac  it  was  the  print  that  roused  him. 

He  was  an  admirable  literary  workman, 
upright,  conscientious,  scrupulous,  and  arduous. 
He  is  of  those  who  have  deserved,  even  on  moral 
grounds,  both  worldly  success  and  lasting  fame. 


HIS  GENERAL  IDEAS  33 


II 

HIS    GENERAL   IDEAS 

As  his  biography  has  shown  us,  Balzac's  in- 
tellectual culture  was  of  the  slightest.  He  had 
hardly  any  time  for  reading,  reflecting,  or  medi- 
tating. It  is  obvious  in  reading  him  that  he 
knew  nothing  of  history,  had  no  knowledge  of 
the  character  or  customs  of  foreign  peoples,  nor 
of  philosophy,  nor  of  the  literature  of  antiquity, 
and  knew  nothing  or  next  to  nothing  of  the 
literature  of  the  modern  world.  As  regards 
any  one  else  it  might  very  well  be  said,  4  You 
know  nothing  about  it ;  a  novelist  does  not 
betray  his  ignorance  by  the  story  that  he  tells, 
and  he  may  be  very  well  posted  without  your 
being  aware  of  it.'  That  is  quite  true ;  but, 
since  Balzac  was  everlastingly  mixing  up  his 
dissertations  with  the  stories  he  had  to  tell, 
his  inadequate  culture  is  as  readily  perceived 
as  it  would  be  if  we  were  dealing  with  a  didactic 
author,  and  his  intellectual  upbringing  is  clearly 
seen  to  be  of  the  slightest.  It  need  not  be 


34  BALZAC 

asked,  in  dealing  with  him,  what  reading  had 
an  influence  on  his  mind.  It  is  quite  plain 
that  nothing  left  any  trace  on  him,  nor  stirred 
him  into  a  ferment.  Of  Walter  Scott  alone 
need  we  affirm  that  he  had  read  him  with  relish, 
and  that  he  had  a  very  keen  desire  to  follow  in 
his  footsteps. 

This  lack,  though  a  very  grave  one,  need  be 
no  absolute  bar  to  the  begetting  of  general 
ideas  in  a  vigorous  mind.  Only,  in  that  case, 
the  ideas  can  never  be  other  than  those  proper 
to  the  individual  temperament  and  its  domestic 
upbringing.  Though  it  may  sometimes  seem 
to  be  otherwise,  it  is  those  very  ideas  and  no 
others  that  Balzac  had.  His  philosophy  is 
crude  and  narrow,  full  of  trenchant  axioms, 
violent  paradoxes,  without  any  fineness  or 
subtle  differentiation,  just  like  that  of  a 
man  who  studies  the  brewing  of  beer.  Having 
met  with  many  hardships  at  the  outset  of  his 
life,  he  looks  on  men  with  some  bitterness,  is 
misanthropic,  and  a  pessimist  in  the  current 
meaning  now  given  to  that  word.  Generally 
speaking,  man  is  for  him  a  brute,  made  up 
merely  of  instincts  and  interests.  An  absolute 
government  and  a  tyrannic  religion  are  neces- 
sary to  hold  him  in.  Balzac,  as  his  domestic 


HIS  GENERAL  IDEAS  35 

upbringing  inclined  him  to  be,  was  a  Christian. 
But  how  came  he  to  be  one  and  for  what 
reasons  ?  Because  4  Christianity,  and  especially 
Catholicism,  being  a  complete  system  for 
repressing  man's  depraved  inclinations,  is  the 
strongest  element  of  social  order.'  He  seems 
to  lean  (without  being  yet  quite  positive  or 
definitely  ranging  himself  on  the  side  of  political 
Catholicism)  towards  the  catholicising  function 
of  the  monarchy  and  the  catholicising  means  of 
rehabilitating  it  and  drawing  it  into  closer 
understanding  with  the  people,  but  with  a  view 
to  bringing  the  people  back  to  the  legitimate 
monarchy.  He  makes  his  village  priest  say, 4  My 
sufferings  having  given  me  a  close  knowledge 
of  secret  charity  as  it  has  been  set  forth  by  the 
great  Saint  Paul  in  his  adorable  epistle,  it  was 
my  earnest  wish  to  stanch  the  unhealing 
wounds  of  the  poor  in  some  neglected  corner 
of  earth  so  as  to  prove  by  my  example,  if  it 
should  please  God  to  bless  my  efforts,  that  the 
Catholic  religion,  as  exemplified  in  human  works, 
is  the  only  good  and  beautiful  civilising  power.' 
Speaking  of  another  priest,  Balzac  says,  4  This 
priest  belonged  to  that  small  portion  of  the 
French  clergy  who  are  in  favour  of  granting 
such  concessions  as  would  tend  to  identify  the 


36  BALZAC 

Church  with  popular  interests,  and  thus  help 
it  to  reconquer,  by  the  application  of  true 
evangelical  doctrine,  its  former  influence  on  the 
masses,  so  that  it  might  then  join  hands  with 
the  monarchy.' 

His  ideas  as  to  our  social  makeshifts  seem  to 
be  identical  with  those  of  Rousseau,  though  it 
is  very  likely  that  he  never  read  the  Discours 
sur  rinegalite.  He  makes  one  of  his  char- 
acters say  to  the  Marquise  d'Anglemont, '  Obey 
society  !  Why,  sir,  all  our  ills  are  the  outcome 
of  that.  God  has  not  made  only  one  law  for  mis- 
fortune ;  but  in  gathering  themselves  together, 
men  have  falsified  His  work.  We  women  [for 
example]  are  worse  treated  by  civilisation  than 
we  should  be  if  nature  had  her  way  with  us. 
Nature  burdens  us  with  physical  penalties 
which  you  have  done  nothing  to  mitigate,  and 
civilisation  has  developed  sentiments  which 
you  continually  belie.  Nature  stifles  her  weak- 
lings ;  you  condemn  them  to  live  on  and  suffer 
continual  unhappiness.  .  .  .' 

In  politics,  properly  so  called,  he  is,  as  I  have 
before  said,  in  favour  of  absolute  power  and  of 
keeping  the  mob  in  a  state  of  passive  obedience 
and  ignorance.  His  whole  political  creed  might 
quite  well  be  summed  up  in  the  axiom  of  Vol- 


HIS  GENERAL  IDEAS  37 

taire,  '  When  the  people  start  to  use  their 
reason,  all  is  lost.5  The  journalist  Blondet 
said,  '  If  the  press  did  not  exist,  it  would  be 
necessary  to  invent  it ;  but  here  it  is,  and  by 
it  we  live.'  4  You  will  die  of  it,'  answered  the 
diplomatist ;  4  don't  you  see  that  the  superiority 
of  the  masses,  supposing  that  you  enlighten 
them,  will  render  individual  greatness  more 
difficult,  that  in  fostering  reason  in  the  heart  of 
the  lower  classes  you  will  reap  revolt  and  that 
you  will  be  its  first  victims  ?  .  .  .'  Hence  his 
horror  of  the  liberty  of  the  press,  since  it  being 
impossible  that  newspapers  should  be  anything 
else  than  the  expression  of  the  passions  of  the 
million,  they  render  articulate  the  4  reason ' 
of  the  mob  and  thus  make  it  more  eager  than 
before,  and  that  without  being  answerable,  and 
therefore,  without  bounds.  The  press,  instead 
of  being  a  priesthood,  has  degenerated  into  a 
party  weapon ;  from  this  it  has  turned  to 
money-making,  and  in  all  such  business  there 
is  neither  faith  nor  law.  Every  newspaper,  as 
Blondet  has  said,  is  a  shop  that  sells  to  the 
public  the  sort  of  words  that  are  most  to  its 
liking.  Were  there  a  newspaper  for  hunch- 
backs, it  would  demonstrate,  late  and  early, 
the  beauty,  the  goodness,  and  the  necessity  of 


38  BALZAC 

hunchbacks.  A  newspaper  is  not  made  to 
enlighten  opinion,  but  to  flatter  it.  Thus  all 
newspapers  must  become,  before  long,  cowardly, 
hypocritical,  lying,  murderous ;  they  will  deal 
death  to  ideas,  system,  men,  and  will  batten 
on  their  slaughter  .  .  .  [and]  they  will  then 
enjoy  the  privileges  granted  to  reasoning 
beings :  the  evil  will  come  about  without 
any  one  being  held  guilty.  .  .  .  We  shall 
all  alike  be  guiltless,  we  shall  be  able  to 
wash  from  our  hands  all  trace  of  shame. 
Napoleon  said,  '  Nobody  is  answerable  for 
collective  crimes  ! ' 

It  is  true  that  Balzac  contradicts  himself 
elsewhere  by  remarking  that  the  great  number 
of  newspapers  serves  to  neutralise  their  force, 
and  this,  if  not  a  remedy,  at  least  brings  some 
measure  of  relief.  '  These  restrictions,  in- 
vented in  the  time  of  M.  de  Villele,  who  might 
have  given  the  death-blow  to  newspapers  by 
scattering  them  broadcast  among  the  people, 
created  instead  a  kind  of  privilege  by  making 
the  founding  of  a  newspaper  an  almost  im- 
possible undertaking.  .  .  .'  But,  in  short,  it 
seems  highly  desirable  that  newspapers  should 
be  simply  suppressed,  or  restricted  to  the  mere 
office  of  news-bearers. 


HIS  GENERAL  IDEAS  39 

What  is  more  curious,  the  thing  which  he 
demanded  of  authority  has  been  effected  by 
the  mob  itself.  The  crowd  asked  for  news- 
papers which  would  give  it  news,  and  formerly 
all  the  newspapers  were  political,  whereas  to- 
day only  the  non-political  have  regular  sub- 
scribers ;  and  the  political  sheets,  kept  going 
by  party  funds,  and  by  people  who  desire  a 
daily  renewal  of  their  convictions  by  the  read- 
ing of  their  newspapers,  lead  a  very  precarious 
existence. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  he  is  quite  opposed 
to  everything  that  goes  to-day  by  the  name  of 
Democracy.  He  saw  in  it  clearly,  firstly,  its 
danger  for  the  middle  classes,  a  section  of  whom 
were  imprudently  clamouring  for  it  in  his  own 
time ;  secondly,  the  danger  of  the  thing  in 
itself,  which  was,  to  his  mind,  the  fact  that  it 
can  only  lead  to  anarchy.  As  to  the  first,  he 
says,  '  Universal  suffrage  which  is  to-day 
demanded  by  those  belonging  to  the  party 
known  as  the  constitutional  opposition.  .  .  . 
The  triumph  of  those  ideas  which  serve  liberal- 
ism in  its  rash  warfare  against  the  prosperous 
Bourbon  government  would  spell  disaster  for 
France  and  for  the  liberals  themselves.  The 
leaders  of  the  left  know  this  quite  well.  For 


40  BALZAC 

them  the  struggle  is  no  more  than  a  question 
of  power.  If  the  middle  class  foster,  under 
the  banner  of  the  opposition,  the  very  social 
superiorities  against  which  their  own  vanity 
is  in  revolt,  such  a  triumph  would  at  once 
bring  about  a  struggle  between  themselves  and 
the  people,  who  would  look  on  them  as  a  sort 
of  aristocracy,  of  a  meaner  kind  indeed,  yet 
an  aristocracy  whose  privileges  would  be  the 
more  irksome  from  its  greater  nearness  to 
themselves.  .  .  .'  Secondly,  democracy  is  in 
itself  a  danger  to  society,  which  it  rends 
asunder  :  '  Universal  suffrage  was  an  excellent 
principle  for  the  Church,  since  there  all  indi- 
viduals were  equally  well-educated,  brought 
into  line  by  the  same  system,  knowing  quite 
well  what  they  wanted  and  where  they  were 
going  [in  a  word,  universal  suffrage  is  excellent 
for  an  aristocratic  body].  But  ...  in  truth, 
I  think  I  have  given  proof  of  my  devotion  to 
the  poor  and  the  suffering,  and  I  could  hardly 
be  accused  of  wishing  that  harm  should  befall 
itj  only,  while  full  of  admiration  for  it  in  those 
laborious  paths  along  which  it  toils,  sublimely 
patient  and  resigned,  I  declare  it  incapable  of 
taking  any  share  in  government.  I  look  on 
the  working  classes  as  the  minors  of  a  nation 


HIS  GENERAL  IDEAS  41 

who  should  always  remain  as  its  wards  in 
chancery.  Thus,  to  my  thinking,  the  word 
election  is  likely  to  cause  as  much  harm  as 
has  already  been  wrought  by  those  mis- 
understood and  ill-defined  words  conscience 
and  liberty,  which  have  been  scattered 
abroad  as  symbols  of  revolt  and  orders  of 
destruction.' 

Another  point  which  he  makes  is  this,  that 
the  modern  spirit,  with  its  unbridled  material- 
ism, destroys  successively  the  spirit  of  the 
family  and  the  family  itself ;  that  it  replaces, 
as  the  sociologists  would  say,  the  family  unit 
by  the  individual  unit,  and  that  it  is,  in  conse- 
quence, seething  with  anarchy  and  the  poison 
of  dissolution.  4  Societies  must  always  be 
based  on  the  family.  Necessarily  a  makeshift, 
incessantly  splitting  up,  recomposed  only  to 
break  asunder  again,  without  any  link  between 
the  future  and  the  past,  the  family  of  old  times 
no  longer  exists  in  France.  [He  means  to  say 
that  the  family  of  to-day  has  nothing  in  common 
with  that  of  bygone  days  which  no  longer 
exists  in  France.]  Those  who  have  helped 
forward  the  destruction  of  the  ancient  building 
have  been  logical  in  sharing  equally  the  family 
goods,  in  restricting  paternal  authority,  in 


42  BALZAC 

making  each  child  the  head  of  a  new  family,  in 
doing  away  with  large  responsibilities ;  but 
is  the  social  state  thus  reconstructed  as  stable, 
with  its  new  laws  tested  for  so  short  a  while,  as 
was  the  monarchy  with  its  old  abuses  ?  In 
the  loss  of  family  solidarity,  society  loses  that 
fundamental  strength  Montesquieu  discovered 
and  called  honour.1  It  has  isolated  every  one 
so  as  to  domineer  the  more  easily  ;  it  has  shared 
out  everything  in  order  to  weaken  all.  It 
rules  over  units,  over  figures  thrown  together 
like  grains  of  wheat  in  a  heap.  Can  general 
interests  ever  replace  the  family  ?  Time  alone 
can  resolve  this  great  problem.5 

Hence  one  of  Balzac's  bugbears  is  the  civil 
code,  which  was  drawn  up  with  a  view,  in  fore- 
cast, of  a  tradition-hating  and  all-levelling 
democracy.  The  civil  code  legalised  divorce, 
which  had  only  been  abolished  by  the  Chambre 
introuvable 2  of  1816  and  which  the  liberals 
desired  to  restore,  since  they  looked  on  it  as  one 
of  the  benefits  achieved  by  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, and  Balzac  writes,  ' .  .  .  Perhaps  no 

1  Let   us   overlook   the   fact  that   Balzac,   never  having    read 
Montesquieu  and  speaking  merely  from  hearsay,  has  no  inkling  of 
what  the  latter  meant  by  honour. 

2  An  ultra-royalist  and  blindly  reactionary  government  to  which 
this  nickname  has  stuck. — TR. 


HIS  GENERAL  IDEAS  43 

picture  from  my  hand  shows  better  than  this 
how  the  indissolubility  of  marriage  is  indis- 
pensable to  European  society.  .  .  .'  The  civil 
code  had  done  away  with  the  family,  or  done 
its  best  to  do  away  with  it.  It  had  wiped  out 
primogeniture  and  freedom  of  willing  by 
testament,  had  insisted  on  the  father's  belong- 
ings being  shared  by  all  his  children  equally, 
to  the  destruction  of  the  house  and  the  con- 
tinuity of  the  family  line  from  generation  to 
generation,  and  Balzac  writes,  '  The  family, 
sir  ?  Is  there  any  such  thing  ?  I  deny  the 
family  [I  deny  that  the  family  exists]  in  a 
society  which,  on  the  death  of  father  or  of 
mother,  divides  up  their  possessions  and  bids 
each  go  his  own  way.  The  family  is  a  tempor- 
ary and  haphazard  association  which  falls  to 
pieces  as  soon  as  a  death  occurs.  Our  laws 
have  broken  up  our  homes,  our  heritages,  the 
permanence  of  example  and  tradition.  I  see 
nothing  but  ruins  around  me.  .  .  .'  And  he 
writes  again,  '  The  civil  code's  right  of  inherit- 
ance, which  ordains  the  sharing  up  of  pro- 
perty, is  the  stake  which,  by  being  continually 
driven  in,  splits  up  the  land  into  tiny  morsels, 
individualises  fortunes  by  taking  away  their 
necessary  stability,  and  which,  by  taking 


44  BALZAC 

everything  to  pieces  without  ever  putting  it 
together  again,  will  culminate  in  the  destruction 
of  France.' 

The  modern  code  again  has  set  up  juries,  and 
Balzac,  in  passing,  lets  fall  this  curious  remark 
as  to  their  mentality—'  Hulot  found  that  his 
vice  absolved  him ;  vice,  in  the  midst  of  its 
unbridled  luxury,  smiled  on  him.  The  gran- 
deur of  his  crime  was  held  to  be  an  ex- 
tenuating circumstance,  just  as  happens  with 
juries.' 

His  literary  ideas  are  never  outlined  with 
sufficient  clearness  to  permit  a  direct  reply  to 
an  inquiry  as  to  what  were  the  aesthetic  theories 
which  he  held.  His  verdict  on  Ruy  Bias  shows 
that  he  looked  on  the  romantic  drama  (and  by 
that  we  mean  also  the  romanesque  drama)  as 
extravagant ;  his  verdict  on  George  Sand's 
Jacques — '  false  from  beginning  to  end  .  .  . 
these  writers  wander  in  space  .  .  .  driving 
their  steeds  through  vacancy ' — that  roman- 
esque characters  (of  which  many  may  be  met 
with  both  in  life  and  in  his  own  works)  were  not 
at  all  to  his  liking.  His  verdict  on  the 
Volupte  of  Sainte-Beuve  and  on  that  writer's 
style  proves,  on  the  one  hand,  that  the  virtu- 
ous and  declamatory  woman  seemed  to  him 


HIS  GENERAL  IDEAS  45 

4  not  womanish  enough,'  and  on  the  other  hand, 
that  he  could  not  bear  the  style  of  psychological 
analysis,  finely  shaded  and  slightly  precious. 
His  general  verdict  on  George  Sand,  in  which 
he  puts  his  finger  on  her  weak  spots,  and  by 
inference,  on  all  that  is  lacking,  shows  that, 
to  Balzac's  way  of  thinking,  in  order  to  write 
a  novel  there  must  be  i  strength  of  conception, 
power  of  constructing  a  plan,  the  faculty  of 
getting  at  the  truth,  and  that  of  touching  the 
heart.'  And  all  that,  though  interesting 
enough,  is  not  very  new. 

Here  we  have  all,  or  very  nearly  all,  of  Bal- 
zac's general  ideas,  and  it  is  quite  needless  for 
me  to  remark  that  they  are  merely  those  com- 
mon during  his  time  to  the  circles  in  which 
he  moved,  and  that  they  would  only  be  really 
worth  study  had  they  been  gone  into  so  thor- 
oughly as  to  give  them  a  meaning  special  to 
himself,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  if  they  had  been 
expressed  with  such  clearness  and  radiancy  as 
sometimes  gives  newness  to  notions  that  are 
trite.  It  is  not  so  here,  and  if  sometimes,  as 
we  have  just  seen  in  those  lines  of  his  above 
quoted,  there  is  some  skill  in  the  way  he  ex- 
presses his  doctrines,  he  has  just  as  often  a  way 
of  setting  them  forth  that  gives  rise  to  a  doubt 


46  BALZAC 

as  to  whether  he  understands  what  he  is  talking 
about,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  following  example, 
which  is  only  one  of  many  that  we  might  bring 
forward  :  '  The  fault  of  governments  in  our 
day  is  that  they  mould  society  less  for  man  than 
man  for  society.  An  unending  struggle  goes 
on  between  the  individual  and  the  system  that 
would  exploit  him,  and  which  he  strives  to 
exploit  for  his  own  profit ;  while  formerly  man, 
in  reality  freer,  bore  himself  more  generously 
towards  the  common  weal.  The  circle  round 
the  centre  of  which  the  interests  of  men  now 
revolve  is  insensibly  enlarged  ;  the  mind  which 
is  able  to  resume  in  itself  all  the  scattered 
elements  will  never  be  other  than  a  magnificent 
exception ;  for,  habitually,  in  the  moral  world 
as  in  the  physical,  movement  gains  in  intensity 
what  it  loses  in  dispersion.  Society  should  not 
be  founded  on  exceptions.  First  of  all,  when 
man  was  merely  a  father  and  no  more,  his 
heart  beat  warmly,  concentrated  within  his 
own  home.  Later  on  he  lived  for  a  small 
republic ;  thence  sprang  the  great  historic 
devotions  of  Greece  and  of  Rome.  Then  he 
became  the  living  shrine  of  a  caste  or  of  a 
religion  for  the  greatness  of  which  he  often 
showed  sublime  behaviour ;  but  therein  the 


HIS  GENERAL  IDEAS  47 

scope  of  his  interests  was  widened  by  intel- 
lectual extension  on  every  side.  To-day  his 
life  is  allied  to  that  of  an  immense  country; 
soon,  we  are  told,  he  will  belong  to  the  whole 
world.  Is  not  this  moral  cosmopolitism,  the 
hope  of  Christian  Rome,  a  sublime  mistake  ? 
It  is  so  natural  to  believe  in  the  realisation  of 
a  noble  chimera,  in  the  brotherhood  of  man  ! 
But,  alas,  the  human  mechanism  cannot  boast 
such  god-like  proportions.  Minds  whose  scope 
is  vast  enough  to  experience  the  kind  of  feeling 
reserved  only  for  the  great,  will  never  belong 
either  to  simple  citizens  or  to  fathers  of  families. 
Certain  physiologists  hold  that  when  the  brain 
thus  expands,  the  heart  must  contract.  Non- 
sense !  The  seeming  selfishness  of  men  who 
bear  in  their  bosoms  the  burden  of  a  science,  a 
nation,  or  of  laws,  what  is  it  but  the  most 
noble  of  passions,  and,  in  its  own  way,  the 
mothering  of  multitudes  ?  In  order  to  bring 
forth  new  peoples  or  to  produce  new  ideas  must 
they  not  comprise  in  their  powerful  heads  the 
breasts  of  woman  and  the  force  of  God  ?  The 
story  of  a  Pope  Innocent  in.,  of  a  Peter  the 
Great,  and  of  every  leader  of  an  age  or  of  a 
nation  would  prove,  if  needed,  in  the  highest 
way,  this  far-reaching  thought  for  which 


48  BALZAC 

Troubert    stood    sponsor    in    the    shadow    of 
Saint-Gatien's  cloisters.' 

Now  such  stuff  is  pitiful,  and  it  is  very  fre- 
quent with  him ;  so  that  Balzac  as  thinker 
cannot  be  spoken  of  without  some  hesitation. 


Ill 

HIS    GENERAL   VIEW   OF  MANKIND 

HE  believes,  as  I  have  said,  man  to  be  wicked, 
a  prey  to  his  instincts,  appetites,  vices,  and 
interests,  and  generally  quite  incapable  of 
disinterested  or  charitable  conduct.  It  even 
looks  as  though  he  were  rather  glad  when 
rascals  succeeded ;  his  own  generally  got  on 
and  finished  up  in  a  blaze  of  glory.  He  seems 
to  hanker  after  the  bitter  pleasure  that  con- 
sists in  discovering  that  in  order  to  get  on  it  is 
only  necessary  to  be  a  rogue.  That  is  just  the 
mental  outlook  of  the  misanthrope  who  bears 
a  grudge  against  the  successful  good  man  for 
spoiling  his  enjoyment  in  despising  mankind. 
'  I  see  plainly,'  said  a  misanthrope,  '  that  some 
honest  men  make  their  way  in  the  world  ;  but 
I  begrudge  it  them,  since  they  upset  my  theories 
and  deprive  me  of  the  enjoyment  that  I  get 
from  the  scoundrels  that  come  out  on  top.' 

Now  this  notion  is  quite  false.     Obviously  it 
is  not  the  saints  that  get  on  or  that  can  get  on. 


50  BALZAC 

They  have  too  many  scruples ;  they  have  too 
many  qualms  of  conscience  ;  they  are  too  prone 
to  ask  themselves  after  a  success,  '  What  crime 
is  it  that  I  have  been  about  ?  '  Moreover,  they 
have  too  much  brotherly  good-feeling,  and  just 
when  they  are  about  to  help  themselves  to  a 
slice  they  begin  wondering  if  it  will  not  do  some 
one  harm,  and  it  is  only  too  sure  that  they  must 
always  answer  '  Yes.'  Saints  do  not  succeed, 
nor  is  success  within  their  power. 

But  no  more  is  it  the  scoundrels  that  get  on. 
At  least  they  very  seldom  do  so.  They  are  too 
eager,  too  hasty  to  be  prudent,  circumspect, 
or  astute,  and  they  are  always  blundering. 
The  blunders  of  Tartuffe  have  a  good  deal  of 
truth  in  them. 

It  is  the  persevering  respectable  nobodies 
who  get  on,  and  certainly  Balzac  has  often 
bestowed  success  on  them,  for  he  has  a  clear- 
seeing  eye ;  but,  allowing  himself  to  be  led 
away  by  his  theories,  he  destroys  verisimilitude 
by  conferring  it  too  often  on  downright  rogues. 

As  for  his  looking  on  man  as  being  almost 
always  a  blind  follower  of  his  appetites  and 
interests,  it  must  be  allowed,  at  the  outset, 
that  he  is  right,  following  it  up  with  an  observa- 
tion which  may  excuse  him,  and  adding  that 


HIS  GENERAL  VIEW  OF  MANKIND    51 

he  himself  makes  many  and  very  considerable 
exceptions. 

The  observation  which  at  least  excuses  him 
is  this  :  We  must  not  say,  as  has  been  said  with 
an  authority  which  almost  makes  me  waver 
despite  conviction,  that  a  novelist  can  no  more 
be  reproached  with  immorality  than  a  historian, 
and  that  if  the  mission  of  the  novel  is  to  show 
us  life  as  a  whole,  it  should  enjoy  the  same 
freedom  as  is  granted  to  history,  and  its  sole 
duty  should  be  subjection  to  its  material.  We 
should  not  say  that,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
the  novelist  is  not  subject  to  his  material, 
while  the  historian  is  so,  completely.  The 
historian  must  submit  to  the  real  facts  and  to 
all  of  them,  while  the  novelist  may  choose 
where  he  will.  If,  then,  history  is  only  immoral 
when  it  is  untruthful,  the  novel  is  immoral 
both  when  it  is  untruthful  and  when,  without 
being  untruthful  it  prefers  the  evil  rather  than 
the  good  in  mankind,  in  order  to  describe  it 
with  an  obvious  complaisance. 

It  is  no  such  excuse  then  that  we  need  bring 
forward  in  Balzac's  defence,  or  rather  in  order 
to  settle  in  our  minds  how  he  may  be  excused. 
It  must  be  said  that  Balzac — and  from  the 
artistic  standpoint  it  is  one  of  his  great  merits — 


52  BALZAC 

has  given  us  a  view  of  men  not  merely  as  they 
are  in  themselves  or  within  the  narrow  circle 
of  their  own  dwellings  and  homes,  but  in  their 
common  dealings  one  with  another,  and  in 
their  social  relations.  Now  this  is  the  best 
way,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  of  seeing  their  worst 
side,  and  of  seeing  them  worse  than  they  really 
are.  A  glance  at  life  as  a  whole  reveals  the 
struggle  for  life  as  its  most  outstanding  feature. 
None  of  us  at  bottom  are  either  all  good  or  all 
evil ;  but  we  seem,  and  indeed  we  are,  worse 
in  our  outward  deeds  than  we  are  in  our  in- 
ward selves.  Left  alone  within  our  family 
circle,  we  usually  aspire  towards  what  is  good. 
Once  outside,  we  are  carried  away  by  conflict- 
ing interests  that  send  us  jostling  rudely  one 
against  the  other,  which  rouse  and  madden  in 
us  that  instinct  to  struggle  which  we  then  feel 
necessary  for  us  to  win  our  way  through. 
These  instincts,  which  we  would  gladly  leave 
in  slumber,  are  roused  by  the  sight  of  a  com- 
petitor who  himself  feels  his  own  stirring  at 
the  sight  of  ourselves.  Men  must  therefore 
appear  in  the  most  unfavourable  light  to  a 
novelist  who  depicts  society  and  man  as  a  social 
unit.  Now,  this  is  just  what  Balzac  always 
did.  It  is  hardly  possible  that  the  social  novel 


HIS  GENERAL  VIEW  OF  MANKIND    53 

should  be  otherwise  than  pessimistic  when  set 
beside  the  homely,  the  intimate,  and  the 
domestic  novel ;  and  the  test,  as  interesting  as 
it  is  easy  to  apply,  is  that  as  soon  as  a  social 
novel  becomes  domestic  it  ceases  to  be  gloomy, 
as  in  Peace  and  War,  and  it  brightens  up  and 
shows  us  the  same  men  in  a  much  better  light 
than  they  had  appeared  but  a  short  while 
before. 

And  I  would  add  that  Balzac  has,  moreover, 
made  many  exceptions.  His  work  shows  us 
many  upright  people  who  are  not  victims.  If 
we  counted  we  should  find  the  straight  folk 
nearly  as  many  as  the  crooked.  The  righteous 
people  are  generally  priests,  doctors,  officers 
of  the  first  Empire  (and  if  Philippe  Brideau 
may  always  be  quoted,  so  should  the  heroic 
veterans  of  honour  who  appear  in  la  Cousine 
Bette),  artists,  collectors,  literary  men  such  as 
Cenacle,  who  is  in  such  strong  contrast  to  the 
journalists  of  Illusions  per  dues,  business  men 
such  as  Cesar  Birotteau,  legal  men  such  as  the 
advocate  Derville,  etc. 

There  are  women  admirably  honest  and  noble- 
hearted,  such  as  the  Baroness  Hulot,  Ursule 
Mirouet,  Eugenie  Grandet,  and  even  Mme.  de 
Mortsauf. 


54  BALZAC 

And  it  has  been  said  (and  I  have  myself  con- 
firmed it)  that  his  honest  people  are  usually 
a  trifle  silly.  It  is  true  that  among  them  we 
find  a  Schmucke  and  an  Abbe  Birotteau  ;  but 
that  is  not  to  say  that  they  are  all  like  that,  and 
the  country  doctor,  Doctor  Mirouet,  the  advo- 
cate Derville,  and  many  others  are  not  at  all  so. 
He  shows  us  many  honest  people  who  know 
what  they  are  about  and  are  quite  shrewd,  and 
many  who  devote  themselves  to  humanity 
without  expecting  any  reward,  or  those  who, 
disillusioned,  retire  to  their  tents  slightly 
wearied  but  entirely  serene.  Of  such  is  Der- 
ville— c  Do  you  know  that  there  are  three  men 
in  society,  the  priest,  the  doctor,  and  the 
lawyer,  who  cannot  think  well  of  the  world  ? 
They  all  wear  black,  perhaps  because  they  are 
in  mourning  for  all  virtue  and  for  all  illusions. 
The  unhappiest  of  them  all  is  the  lawyer. 
When  a  man  seeks  out  the  priest,  he  is  driven 
on  by  repentance,  by  remorse,  by  a  faith  which 
makes  him  of  interest,  which  ennobles  him,  and 
brings  consolation  to  the  soul  of  the  mediator, 
whose  task  cannot  be  carried  out  without  some 
sense  of  joyousness  :  he  purifies,  he  makes 
good  past  trespass,  he  reconciles.  But  we 
lawyers  see  nothing  but  the  same  ill  feelings ; 


HIS  GENERAL  VIEW  OF  MANKIND    55 

nothing  alters  them ;  our  studies  are  like  foul 
cisterns  that  cannot  be  cleansed.  I  know. 
...  I  know.  ...  In  short  all  the  horrors  that 
novelists  fancy  they  invent  still  fall  short  of  the 
truth.  I  am  going  away  to  live  in  the  country 
with  my  wife.' 

Balzac  gives  us  pictures,  then,  of  very  intelli- 
gent and  very  virtuous  people,  who  find  vice 
revolting  and  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  it.  To 
this  we  may  add  that  his  virtuous  people, 
though  they  may  seem  rather  silly,  are  not  so 
much  so  when  looked  at  closely.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  truth  in  showing  them  us  as  find- 
ing in  the  heroism  of  their  friendship  the 
cleverness  and  cunning  which  are  prompted  in 
others  only  by  cupidity  or  mean  trickery  ;  and 
such  characters  as  Schmucke  and  Pons,  whom, 
moreover,  he  has  painted  lovingly,  are  very 
interesting  when  considered  in  this  light. 

When  all  has  been  reckoned  up  (and  unfortun- 
ately this  is  no  more  than  a  phrase,  since  in 
such  matters  our  reckoning  can  never  be  com- 
plete), Balzac  does  not  seem  to  me  to  have 
cast  too  much  of  a  slur  on  humanity.  Only  a 
very  little  contradiction  might  tempt  me  to 
aver  that  he  was  inclined  to  flatter  it.  The 
illusion  comes  about  from  the  fact  that  his 


56  BALZAC 

rogues  are  so  powerfully  depicted,  and  he 
excelled  so  wonderfully  in  portraying  such 
types,  that  all  his  other  characters  are  thrown 
into  shadow  and  seem  blurred  beside  them ; 
but  it  is  no  fault  of  his  if  the  rogues  stand  out 
more  distinctly,  in  higher  relief,  and  with  a 
more  vivid  colouring,  simply  as  the  result  of 
their  offering  greater  opportunities  to  the 
painter.  The  same  thing  happens  in  the  novel 
as  in  the  tragedy,  where  the  terrible  bandit 
makes  a  far  greater  impression  on  the  spectator 
and  remains  unforgettably  in  his  memory, 
while  the  honest  man,  although  having  been  in 
nowise  overlooked,  wins  no  more  than  his  bare 
approval  and  is  readily  forgotten. 

Notice  again  that  Balzac  always  kept  '  some 
of  virtue's  soiled  wrappings  '  about  him  (as 
Vautrin  has  it),  and  these  are  very  pleasant  to 
observe.  Is  it  not  curious  to  notice  that  he 
has  full  faith  in  the  remorse  of  criminals  (see 
the  conclusion  of  Ursule  Mirouet),  while  it  is 
proved  beyond  doubt  that  only  honest  people 
know  remorse,  and  that  rogues  have  no  notion 
of  what  it  means  ?  Balzac  was  too  good  a 
psychologist,  and  knew  men  too  well  to  bestow 
remorse  on  an  out-and-out  rogue  ;  he  gives  it 
to  a  man  who  has  made  only  one  slip  or  rare 


HIS  GENERAL  VIEW  OF  MANKIND    57 

ones  ;  and  yet  he  gives  it  also  to  a  man  who  has 
never  had  a  noble  or  an  honest  thought,  one 
who  has  never  thought  of  anything  else  but 
money,  one  to  whom  we  should  deem  remorse 
forbidden;  and  this  failing,  or  half  failing,  is 
greatly  to  his  honour. 

He  saw  in  society  first  of  all,  and  before 
everything  else,  the  auri  sacra  fames,  the  famous 
thirst  for  gold,  the  mad  and  universal  onrush 
in  pursuit  of  fortune.  The  sentence  of  La 
Bruyere  but  slightly  varied  might  well  serve 
as  a  headline  to  almost  the  whole  of  Balzac's 
work — 'There  are  some  foul  souls,  kneaded 
together  out  of  filth  and  spawn,  who  yearn 
after  money  and  personal  advantage  in  just 
the  same  way  as  those  finer  souls  who  yearn 
after  glory  and  virtue,  incapable  of  any  other 
delight  than  that  which  comes  from  gain  or  the 
avoidance  of  loss ;  inquisitive  and  eagerly 
hankering  after  the  smallest  farthing,  their 
whole  attention  taken  up  by  their  debtors, 
everlastingly  uneasy  about  the  rise  and  fall 
of  money  values,  weighed  down  and  smothered 
by  contracts,  title-deeds,  and  parchment.  Such 
men  are  neither  friends  nor  citizens,  nor  per- 
chance are  they  men  :  what  they  want  is  money.' 
Money  is,  in  Balzac,  what  the  far-away  Princess 


58  BALZAC 

is  for  Rostand's  knights- errant,  what  Italy  was 
for  the  companions  of  ^Eneas,  4  that  towards 
which  the  rowers  steered,'  indefatigably,  over 
hidden  rocks  and  through  tempests,  braving 
even  death  for  its  sake.  You  know  the  famous 
sonnet  of  Heredia  through  which  he  has  so 
skilfully  threaded  the  two  motives  which  drove 
onward  the  Cenquistadores  to  the  conquest 
of  the  West  Indian  isles  : 

As  hawks,  their  lofty  eyries  bare  of  prey, 

Quit  the  ancestral  shambles  and  sweep  down, 
Athirst  for  rapine  or  for  high  renown, 

Freebooters  and  proud  captains  sailed  away. 

They  sought  that  wondrous  metal  hoard  that  lay 

In  the  remotest  dark  of  caverns  lone ; 

The  trade-winds,  on  their  tightened  canvas  blown, 
Toward  veiled  western  borders  clove  the  spray. 

At  eve  all  eager  for  the  heroic  war, 

The  phosphorescent  waves  filled  all  their  rest 
With  phantom  glory  of  the  gold  in  quest ; 

Or,  from  the  prow,  they  counted  star  by  star 
New  splendours  rise  beyond  the  last  wave's  crest 

Over  unknown  horizons  very  far. 

From  these  two  motives,  the  thirst  for  gold 
and  the  love  of  adventure,  of  the  mysterious 
and  of  the  unknown,  cut  away  the  second  ;  of 
the  heroic  and  brutal  dreams  leave  only  the 
brutal,  and  you  have  exactly  the  mental  out- 


HIS  GENERAL  VIEW  OF  MANKIND    59 

look  of  mankind  as  it  seemed  to  Balzac  almost 
wholly.  It  is  his  first  and  his  most  outstanding 
characteristic.  *  "  May  the  devil  take  your  good 
God,"  replied  Grandet  grumbling  [in  Eugenie 
Grandet].  Misers  have  no  belief  in  a  future 
life ;  the  present  is  all  in  all  to  them.  This 
reflection  throws  a  very  sinister  light  on  the 
days  in  which  we  are  living,  when,  more  than 
ever  before,  it  is  money  that  dominates  our 
laws,  our  politics,  and  our  whole  way  of  living. 
Institutions,  books,  men,  and  doctrines  all 
conspire  to  undermine  that  belief  in  a  future 
life  on  which  the  social  edifice  has  been  sup- 
ported for  eighteen  hundred  years.  Now  the 
grave  is  hardly  looked  upon  as  a  stage  of 
transition.  The  future  to  which  we  looked 
forward  far  beyond  the  requiem  has  been  trans- 
ferred into  the  present.  To  reach  per  fas  aut 
nefas  the  worldly  paradise  of  luxury  and  un- 
limited enjoyment,  to  harden  the  heart  and 
mortify  the  body  in  order  to  get  hold  of  fleeting 
possessions,  just  as  formerly  men  suffered  life- 
long martyrdom  in  order  to  ensure  their 
eternal  welfare  —  such  is  now  the  general 
thought !  And  it  is  a  thought  moreover  which 
is  written  plainly  everywhere,  even  in  the  laws 
which  ask  of  a  legislator  "  How  do  you  pay  ?  " 


60  BALZAC 

instead  of  "  How  do  you  think  ?  "  When  this 
doctrine  is  passed  on  from  the  middle  classes 
to  the  lower,  what  is  to  become  of  the  country  ?  ' 
In  la  Cousine  Bette  we  find  :  '  You  make  a 
great  mistake,  my  dear  angel,  if  you  think  that 
it  is  King  Louis  Philippe  who  reigns,  and  he 
himself  is  under  no  delusion  about  it.  He  knows 
as  well  as  any  of  us,  that,  over  and  above  the 
charter  of  the  Constitution,  there  is  the  holy, 
venerated,  solid,  pleasant,  gracious,  lovely, 
noble,  young,  and  almighty  coin  of  one  hundred 
sous.  .  .  .  May  the  God  of  the  Jews  away  with 
it !  In  short  it  is  the  eternal  allegory  of  the 
golden  calf.  .  .  .'  And  again  :  '  "  How  does  this 
great  evil  come  about?"  asks  the  baroness. 
"  From  the  lack  of  religion,"  replies  the  doctor, 
"  and  from  the  inroads  of  finance,  which  is 
nothing  else  than  selfishness  solidified.  Money, 
formerly,  was  not  everything  ;  we  allowed  that 
there  were  superiorities  of  which  money  was 
the  award.  There  was  nobility,  talent,  service 
rendered  to  the  state ;  but  to-day  the  law 
makes  money  the  standard  ;  it  has  even  made 
it  a  test  of  fitness  for  the  vote.  Certain  magis- 
trates are  not  eligible  ;  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau 
would  not  be  eligible  !  [nor  an  elector].  The 
perpetual  dividing  up  of  inheritance  forces 


HIS  GENERAL  VIEW  OF  MANKIND    61 

everybody  to  look  out  for  himself  as  soon  as  he 
reaches  twenty  years.  Ah  well !  between  the 
necessity  of  making  a  fortune  and  the  slow 
corruption  of  underhand  manoeuvring,  no 
obstacles  are  set ;  for  religious  sentiment  is  far 
to  seek  in  France,  despite  the  noble  efforts 
of  those  who  are  striving  to  bring  about  a 
Catholic  revival ;  there  you  have  what  every- 
body is  saying  who  contemplates,  as  I  do, 
society  in  its  nethermost  depths.' 

Such  is  Balzac's  central  thought.  But  that, 
were  it  not  for  the  intensity  that  he  puts  into 
it,  would  hardly  distinguish  him  from  his  pre- 
decessors, and  Marivaux  (in  his  Paysan  par- 
venu and  in  his  Marianne)  and  Le  Sage  and  La 
Bruyere  have  all — naturally — realised  it  quite 
as  fully.  But  what  Balzac  has  strikingly 
underlined  and  with  his  own  special  mark  is 
the  new  scope  for  ambition  in  the  modern 
world.  Under  the  old-time  regime,  graces 
being  reserved  for  a  single  privileged  class,  the 
strife  for  favour  was  restricted  to  it.  In  modern 
society  it  is  spread  throughout  the  whole  nation. 
In  a  state  which  has  remained  centralised  while 
becoming  democratic,  the  whole  country  takes 
on  the  character  of  the  court  of  Versailles. 
When  Figaro  said  to  Almaviva,  c  You  took  the 


62  BALZAC 

trouble  to  be  born,'  the  latter  might  have 
answered,  '  And  also  to  intrigue.  And  do  you 
complain  of  that  ?  A  time  will  come  when  you 
will  be  obliged  to  spend  as  much  time  on  in- 
trigue as  we  do.'  Balzac  saw  that  quite  plainly, 
and  it  is  one  of  the  things  which  gives  to  his 
work  its  cohesion,  its  reality,  and  its  life.  The 
importance  of  connections,  the  often-heard 
4  Whom  do  you  know  ? '  which  has  now  replaced 
the  former  '  Of  what  family  ? ' ;  the  constant 
preoccupation  with  friendships  to  be  fostered 
or  to  be  conferred,  of  influences  to  be  brought 
into  play,  of  recommendations  to  be  obtained 
by  hook  or  by  crook,  are  all  found  time  and 
again  in  the  pages  of  his  work.  Balzac  does 
not  name  a  clerk  in  the  law-courts  without 
pointing  out  that  he  is  related  to  the  Parisots, 
nor  a  justice  of  the  peace  without  having  made 
sure  that  he  is  second  cousin  to  the  Grandlieus. 
There  are  negotiations  for  bringing  about 
marriages,  diplomatic  campaigns  for  acquiring 
inheritances,  Wars  of  the  Roses,  with  alliances, 
agreements,  sharing  out  of  the  spoil,  truces,  and 
treaties,  all  with  a  view  to  climbing  the  social 
ladder.  Modern  life  is  there,  not  the  whole  of 
it  certainly,  but  it  is  there  truthfully  shown  and 
observed  in  a  new  and  original  way,  in  the 


HIS  GENERAL  VIEW  OF  MANKIND    63 

unity  of  its  main  impulse  and  its  infinite  variety 
of  circumstance.  And  in  such  trafficking  he  is 
worthy  of  close  attention  and  a  very  important 
witness  as  to  what  was  taking  place  in  his  own 
time. 

Certain  things  even  which  are  no  longer  true 
— and  let  us  beware  of  putting  it  down  too 
readily  to  the  romanesque  and  the  romantic — 
were  at  the  time  of  writing  almost  as  bad  as  he 
made  them  out  to  be.  For  example,  the  enor- 
mous power  which  he  attributes  to  the  press, 
to  a  handful  of  literary  bandits  making  repu- 
tations or  ruining  them,  seems  to  us  a  paradox 
in  days  when  newspapers  hold  only  a  very 
uncertain  sway  and  their  power  is  mainly 
financial.  But  let  us  remember  that  in  Bal- 
zac's day  the  press  was  not  free,  that  the 
number  of  newspapers  was  very  limited,  and 
that  it  is  just  in  such  circumstances  that  the 
press  becomes  almighty,  its  authority  being 
in  inverse  ratio  to  the  freedom  which  it  enjoys  ; 
and  the  small  number  of  newspapers  makes  it 
very  easy  for  them  to  join  hands,  while  a 
multiplicity  of  them  on  the  contrary  serves  to 
neutralise  the  mass,  a  phenomenon  which,  as 
we  have  already  seen,  Balzac  himself  antici- 
pated. 


64  BALZAC 

Sometimes  even  this  '  realist '  or  '  naturalist ' 
(if  this  quite  unsuitable  label  must  be  fixed  on 
him)  makes  a  sort  of  sudden  leap  into  the 
realms  of  the  ideal,  which  is  very  curious  and 
renders  him  very  attractive.  It  is  rare,  but 
still  it  does  happen.  I  am  not  alluding  to  the 
occultism  of  Seraphita  or  the  magnetism  of 
Ursule  Mirouet,  which  seem  to  me  to  be  simply 
the  outcome  of  Balzac's  curiosity  during  a 
passing  whim,  a  curiosity  that  was  roused  by 
his  mother's  reading  of  Swedenborg,  and,  in 
addition,  by  the  movement  strongly  imbued 
with  occultism  and  cabalism  which  took  place 
about  1840  ;  I  allude  rather  to  what  may  be 
called  the  poetry  of  realism,  to  the  exaltation 
of  humble  joys,  the  manner  in  which  he  felt 
and  expressed  the  strong  and  healthy  relish 
of  popular  labour,  the  manner  in  which  he  felt 
and  makes  us  feel  the  freshness  of  the  soul  that 
rests  before  plunging  once  more  into  physical 
activity.  *  We  arrived  just  at  that  point  when 
the  vine-harvesting  in  Touraine  becomes  a 
downright  festival.  The  house  is  full  of  people 
and  of  provisions.  The  wine-presses  are  going 
all  the  time.  Everything  seems  to  be  alive 
with  the  movement  of  coopers,  of  two-wheeled 
carts  loaded  with  laughing  girls,  of  people  who, 


HIS  GENERAL  VIEW  OF  MANKIND    65 

earning  the  best  wages  of  the  whole  year,  start 
singing  on  the  slightest  excuse.  ...  I  looked 
at  the  pretty  hedges  all  beaded  and  spiked, 
and  covered  with  red  fruit ;  I  hearkened  to  the 
shouting  children,  I  gazed  at  the  swarming 
harvesters,  the  cartful  of  casks,  and  the  men 
with  baskets  strapped  on  their  backs.  .  .  . 
Then  I  fell  to  gathering  the  grapes,  filling  my 
basket,  and  going  to  empty  it  into  the  grape- 
barrel  in  silence  and  with  a  great  steadiness  of 
bodily  endeavour  that  was  kept  going  with  a 
slow  and  measured  stride  that  seemed  to  set 
free  my  soul.  I  tasted  the  ineffable  pleasure 
of  an  open-air  labour  that  drives  life  onward 
by  curbing  the  passions  which,  without  such 
physical  drill,  might  burn  up  everything.  I 
felt  how  much  wisdom  there  is  in  such  recur- 
rent toil,  and  I  realised  the  meaning  of  the 
monastic  orders.'  The  style  may  not  be  first- 
rate,  but  the  inspiration  is  on  a  high  plane, 
the  thought  is  powerful,  the  painting  shows  a 
vision  of  wide  range,  and  I  should  be  very  glad 
for  the  honour  of  my  country  if  the  admirable 
passage  which  Tolstoi  devotes  to  the  hay- 
making were  directly  derived  from  it.  In  any 
case  it  is  a  singular  merit  in  each  that  it  recalls 
the  other, 

JE 


66  BALZAC 

It  has  been  said  that  from  his  general  view 
of  the  modern  world  love  was  entirely  shut  out. 
That  seems  to  me  to  be  very  far  from  the  truth. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  young  lads  in  love  are  rare 
enough,  and  Balzac's  young  men  are  mastered 
by  ambition,  which,  we  may  remark  in  passing, 
is  yet  another  fact  not  to  be  denied ;  but  he 
gives  us  plenty  of  young  girls  and  young  women 
who  are  in  love.  There  is  Ursule  Mirouet, 
there  is  Eugenie  Grandet,  there  is  Modeste 
Mignon,  there  is  la  femme  de  trente  ans9  there  is 
la  femme  abandonee,  there  is  the  lady  of  la 
Grenadiere,  there  is  Coralie  of  the  Illusions 
perdues,  and  there  are  plenty  of  others.  His 
women  in  love  are  generally  rather  childish; 
they  fall  in  love  for  nothing  at  all,  without  any 
apparent  psychological  reason,  and  in  a  sudden 
flash,  though  we  need  not  say  it  never  happens 
otherwise,  but  it  is  quite  rare  (Ursule  Mirouet, 
Eugenie  Grandet,  Coralie) ;  sometimes  in  cir- 
cumstances which,  without  Balzac  intending  or 
foreseeing  it,  are  comical :  Ursule  Mirouet 
falling  in  love  with  Savinien  on  seeing  him 
in  the  distance  shaving  himself  and  '  bearing 
himself  with  such  grace  .  .  .'  It  cannot  be 
denied  that  they  are  a  trifle  silly  ;  but  they  love 
profoundly,  with  a  gentle  stubbornness,  so 


HIS  GENERAL  VIEW  OF  MANKIND    67 

quiet  and  resigned,  that  makes  them  very 
pathetic. 

And  as  regards  love  at  another  age,  let  us 
not  forget  that  Balzac  gave  us  the  woman  of 
thirty  as  pathetic  and  not  ridiculous  in  her 
loving,  and  that  this  type,  to  which  he  owed 
half  of  his  success  with  the  public  (and  I  believe 
he  knew  what  he  was  about),  is  from  every  point 
of  view  excellent,  the  more  so  since,  carried 
away,  likely  enough,  by  certain  of  his  own 
memories,  he  drew  it  with  accuracy,  a  flawless 
detail,  and  the  finest  of  shading.  I  pass  by  his 
elderly  lovers,  who  are  quite  admirable  (I  mean 
the  portraits  which  he  draws  of  them),  and,  to 
sum  up,  I  am  astonished  that  it  should  so  often 
be  said  of  Balzac's  work  that '  there  is  too  little 
love  in  it.'  With  plenty  of  experience,  and 
knowing  well  what  was  required,  Balzac  took 
good  care  that  love  should  always  figure  in  his 
novels,  since  it  is  bound  to  be  met  with  in  the 
dramas  of  real  life  ;  he  has  given  it  as  large  a 
place  in  his  works  as  it  occupies  in  the  world 
without,  so  much  so  that  I  am  half  inclined  to 
say  that  there  is  more  love  in  Balzac  than  in 
life  itself ;  but  here  again  is  a  case  where 
statistics  are  difficult  to  come  at. 

Elsewhere    there    are    gaps.     Indeed,    this 


68  BALZAC 

picture  of  mankind,  this  ample  comedy  of  a 
hundred  diverse  acts  of  which  the  scene  is  the 
whole  world,  as  his  admirers  have  so  often 
said  and  as  he  himself  claimed,  is  brimful  of 
widely  diverse  characters,  it  is  true ;  and  yet 
they  have  been  gathered  together  from  a  com- 
paratively small  circle.  His  knowledge  was 
confined  to  the  middle  classes,  and  what  he 
knew  of  the  upper  ten  was  very  slight  and 
obviously  of  the  most  superficial  kind.  Solici- 
tors, attorneys,  barristers,1  recorders,  bailiffs, 
money-lenders,  dealers,  shopkeepers,  book- 
keepers, country  squires,  provincial  men  of 
independent  means,  smallholders,  the  clergy 
of  town  or  country,  doctors,  students,  stage 
folk  (but  ill-known),  journalists : — that  is  his 
world.  Where  are  the  workmen,  officials, 
soldiers,  manufacturers,  judges,  parliamentary 
people,  election  agents,  bureaucrats  (save 
Marneffe,  Us  Employes  being  negligible), 
the  professors  (so  important  between  1830  and 
1848,  as  Brunetiere  remarked  so  well),  the 
monks,  nuns,  women  teachers,  and  domestic 
servants  ?  The  huge  world  of  the  peasantry 
was  quite  unknown  to  him,  as  is  clearly  shown 

1  Brunetiere  says  that  there  are  no  barristers  in  Balzac  ;  there 
are  no  others,  it  is  true,  save  only — Albert  Savarus, 


by  what  he  has  said  of  them ;  and  it  is  curious 
that  George  Sand's  idealised  peasants,  although 
highly  fashioned,  are  a  very  great  deal  nearer 
the  truth  than  his  own,  which  are  wholly 
imaginary. 

Another  very  serious  shortcoming  is  that 
there  are  no  children  in  Balzac.  We  get  only 
a  passing  glimpse,  lightly  outlined  in  la  Grena- 
diere.  A  picture  of  mankind  without  any 
children  in  it  is  very  incomplete. 

This  painter  of  humanity,  it  must  be  owned, 
shows  us  no  more  than  the  middle  classes  under 
Louis  Philippe,  with  its  memories  of  the  by- 
gone military  world  of  the  first  Empire ;  nothing 
beyond  that :  but  that  in  nowise  prevents  him 
from  reaching  the  highest  rank  among  those 
who  paint  society  for  us  in  the  pages  of  the 
novel ;  but  we  must  not  overstate  the  case. 

And  what  he  knew  best  of  all,  in  spite  of  his 
being  the  first  to  exploit  the  novel  of  provincial 
life,  was  Paris.  There,  observe  that  from  the 
upper  ten  (though  his  hand  was  still  not  very 
sure  when  depicting  high  life)  down  to  the 
gate-keepers,  policemen,  and  street  bullies,  he 
knew  almost  everything,  and  gave  everything 
so  stern  a  look  and  such  a  lifelike  mien  that 
we  recognise  two  or  three  hundred  men  and 


70  BALZAC 

women  whom  we  have  never  seen,  who  lived 
in  our  father's  time,  and  who  are  just  as 
familiar  to  us  as  though  they  lived  in  our  own. 
Balzac  might  well  be  called  King  of  Paris,  in 
so  far  as  it  be  granted  that  it  is  kings  who 
know  their  subjects. 

Moreover,  he  detested  it  whole-heartedly. 
'  "  When  Bliicher,"  said  the  foreign  diplomatist, 
"  arrived  on  the  heights  of  Montmartre  with 
Saacken  in  1814 — excuse  me,  gentlemen,  for 
reminding  you  of  this  fatal  day — Saacken, 
who  was  a  dull  lout,  said  :  '  We  are  going  to 
burn  up  Paris.'  '  Take  care  that  you  do 
nothing  of  the  sort,'  answered  Bliicher,  pointing 
out  the  vast  canker  that  lay  stretching  away 
beneath  them,  swollen  and  smoking,  in  the 
valley  of  the  Seine,  '  that  thing  alone  will  bring 
death  to  France.'  "  ' 

And  again :  *  Charles  was  nonetheless  a 
child  of  Paris,  trained  by  the  habits  of  Paris, 
even  by  Annette  herself,  to  calculate  every- 
thing, and  already  an  old  man  beneath  his 
mask  of  youthful  seeming.  He  had  received  the 
ghastly  education  of  a  world  where,  in  a  single 
evening,  more  wrong  is  done  by  thought  and 
word  than  justice  can  punish  in  the  assize  courts, 
where  smart  talk  deals  out  summary  death  to 


HIS  GENERAL  VIEW  OF  MANKIND    71 

the  loftiest  ideals ;  where  only  those  who  see 
plainly  are  regarded  as  clever ;  and  there 
seeing  plainly  implies  an  entire  lack  of  belief 
in  anything,  whether  it  be  in  sentiments,  or 
men,  or  even  in  events  :  for  sham  events  are 
always  being  invented  in  such  circles.  There, 
to  see  plainly  you  must  weigh  every  morning 
your  friend's  purse,  so  that  you  may  know  how 
to  keep  on  the  safe  side ;  you  must  be  careful 
lest  you  admire  anything,  whether  it  be  works 
of  art  or  noble  deeds,  and  you  must  not  attri- 
bute to  anything  a  higher  motive  than  personal 
advantage.'  And  given  Balzac's  personal 
temperament,  we  may  be  sure  that  the  things 
he  said  the  most  ill  of  were  the  things  which  he 
knew  best. 

In  this  connection  he  clearly  recognised  yet 
another  essential  element  of  modern  French 
life  (I  cannot  call  it  the  best),  to  wit,  provincial 
jealousy  in  respect  of  Paris,  a  jealousy  so  fruit- 
ful of  disastrous  consequences  that  the  pro- 
vinces have  given  up  reading  because  books 
are  made  at  Paris ;  that  a  patient  leaving 
Paris  for  the  provinces  is  at  once  treated  by 
his  new  doctor  in  a  manner  different  from  the 
one  who  looked  after  him  in  the  capital, 
Parisian  medical  men  being  all  regarded  alike 


72  BALZAC 

as  dunces  or  quacks ;  so  that  the  provincial, 
should  he  make  his  way  at  Paris,  is  looked  at 
askance  by  his  fellow-townsmen  when  he 
returns  among  them,  and  so  on.  '  "  At  last 
we  've  got  rid  of  the  Parisians,"  ejaculated 
Max.  "The  man  that  struck  me  had  no  idea 
of  doing  us  such  a  good  turn."  The  next  day, 
the  departure  of  the  Parisians  was  celebrated 
by  the  whole  town  as  a  victory  for  the  Province 
against  [sic]  Paris.  Some  of  Max's  friends 
held  forth  with  great  severity  on  the  Brideaus  : 
"  Ah  well,  these  Parisian  fellows  fancied  that 
we  were  noodles  and  that  they  had  only  to 
hold  out  their  hats  for  legacies  to  come  pouring 
in  like  rain !  " — "  They  came  here  after  our 
wool ;  but  they  are  going  back  fleeced.  .  .  . 
And  their  counsel  was  a  Parisian  barrister,  if 
you  please." — "  Ah !  they  had  concocted  a 
plan  ?  " — "  Why,  yes  ;  they  thought  that  they 
were  going  to  make  old  Rouget  knuckle  under  ; 
but  the  Parisians  found  the  task  too  heavy  for 
them  and  the  barrister  won't  crow  over  the 
Berrichons." — "  Do  you  know  what  is  abomin- 
able ?  why,  these  Parisian  fellows."  The 
town  looked  on  the  Brideaus  as  Parisians  and 
foreigners  ;  and  hence  they  sided  with  Max  and 
Mori.' 


HIS  GENERAL  VIEW  OF  MANKIND    73 

Such  is  Balzac's  general  outlook  on  the 
society  of  his  day  and  on  society  as  a  whole. 
No  one  in  such  a  matter  is  in  a  position  to  say, 
4  This  is  true,  and  that  is  false,'  so  slender  must 
be  the  information  even  of  the  best  informed 
among  us.  Moreover,  I  shall  take  very  good 
care  not  to  attach  any  importance  to  the  pretty 
and  spiteful  saying  of  Sainte-Beuve  :  '  Balzac, 
the  novelist  who  best  knew  the  corruption  of 
his  time  and  was  one  of  those  who  added  to 
it ' ;  nor  this  other  of  the  same  critic  :  '  No 
one  has  ever  made  such  a  parade  of  the  dirty 
linen  of  the  human  rubbish-heap.'  I  shall  say 
merely  this  :  that  Balzac  was  the  historian 
who  best  knew  a  certain  section  of  the  society 
of  his  day;  who  had  the  closest  knowledge  of 
its  ruling  passions ;  who  knew  all  that  was 
evil  in  it,  and  even  all  that  was  good;  who 
excelled  in  showing  its  anatomy  and  in  painting 
it  with  a  slight  tendency  to  give  it  us  in  its  more 
evil  guise,  but  with  a  power  less  sure  of  mastery 
in  rendering  the  good  than  the  evil,  even  though 
he  may  perhaps  have  been  equally  desirous  of 
doing  justice  to  both. 


74  BALZAC 


IV 

HIS    ART   AND   ITS    MAKE-UP 

WE  have  seen  that  Balzac  pronounced  George 
Sand  lacking  in  the  power  of  '  laying  down  the 
main  lines  of  a  design.'  He  had  a  good  deal 
of  justification  for  such  a  verdict,  but  he  was 
quite  the  dupe  of  his  own  flattery  in  imagining 
that  he  himself  was  any  better  off.  His  work 
is  always  clear,  but  his  way  of  putting  it 
together  makes  it  quite  other  than  a  work  of 
art.  The  proportions  are  in  nowise  measured. 
His  openings  are  almost  always  prodigiously 
slow,  and  his  conclusions  at  times  very  abrupt — 
he  sometimes  brings  them  about  by  an  accident 
(as  in  Ursule  Mirouet),  which  offends  all  the 
laws  of  great  art.  At  other  times  they  are 
too  long  foreseen,  and  so  long  drawn  out  as 
to  make  the  reader  restive  and  impatient ; 
though  there  are  exceptions,  such  as  Eugenie 
Grandet,  le  Cousin  Pons,  and  le  Colonel  Chabert. 
But  more  often  than  not  the  author  hails 
his  hors-d'oeuvre  with  an  expansive  hospitality 


HIS  ART  AND  ITS  MAKE-UP        75 

that  is  anything  but  pleasing.  His  huge  de- 
scriptive beginnings  are  well  known.  I  own 
to  being  greatly  interested  by  their  careful 
realism,  just  as  I  am  interested  by  many  pages 
of  Stendhal's  Memoires  d'un  Tourists  ;  I  grant 
also  that  no  proper  understanding  of  the 
human  animal  is  possible  unless  you  give  me 
a  close  view  of  the  surroundings  in  which  he 
moves  and  the  house  which  he  inhabits.  But 
too  much  is  too  much,  and  I  have  no  need  of 
a  hundred  pages  to  get  an  impression  of  reality 
or  to  discern  the  aspect  of  a  house,  and  I  often 
have  the  feeling  with  Balzac  that  he  is  describ- 
ing for  the  sake  of  describing,  and  that  he  has 
more  than  a  little  of  the  well-known  garrulity 
of  the  tourist. 

And  this  is  the  more  marked  since  his  descrip- 
tions of  dwellings — not  always,  but  often 
enough — do  not  help  in  the  least  towards  an 
understanding  of  the  characters.  The  essen- 
tial protagonists  in  Pere  Goriot  are  Goriot, 
Rastignac,  and  Vautrin.  All  three  find  them- 
selves at  the  Pension  Vauquer  by  stress  of 
circumstances,  and  the  Pension  Vauquer  has 
not  had,  and  does  not  have,  the  slightest 
influence  on  their  characters,  and  is  therefore 
quite  irrelevant.  The  Vauquer  dwelling  ex- 


76  BALZAC 

plains  nothing  but  Mme.  Vauquer.  4  Every 
inmate  helps  to  account  for  the  pension,  just 
as  the  pension  implies  everybody  in  it.' 
Granted ;  but  she  herself  is  the  only  person 
whom  the  pension  explains  or  implies,  and  she 
is  just  the  least  important  character  in  the 
novel.  Hence  the  description  is  unnecessary. 
I  admit  that,  in  itself,  it  is  very  agreeable. 

These  preliminary  descriptions  are  often 
quite  toilsome.  The  reader  feels  that,  even 
if  useful,  they  should  be  brief  and  agile  at  the 
beginning,  and  that  afterwards  they  should 
fall  easily  into  line  with  the  main  body  of  the 
story.  Material  reality  surrounds  us  and  fol- 
lows us  throughout  our  whole  existence ;  it 
should  be  shown  running  like  a  thread  through 
the  whole  story,  drawn  out  here  and  there 
with  skill,  merged  in  the  behaviour  of  the 
personages,  and  showing  us  the  picture  held 
within  the  elastic  framework  of  worldly  circum- 
stance. And  so  true  is  this,  it  seems  to  me, 
that,  having  set  out  with  these  descriptions 
of  material  things,  Balzac  begins  them  all  over 
again,  and  has  partly  to  repeat  them  in  the 
course  of  his  story.  This  clearly  shows  that 
at  the  beginning  they  were  irrelevant,  at  least 
when  set  forth  at  such  length. 


HIS  ART  AND  ITS  MAKE-UP        77 

Another  still  more  serious  fault  appears  in 
those  digressions,  those  excursus,  those  para- 
bases  (and  in  this  matter  our  pedantic  termino- 
logy is  quite  the  most  fitting)  with  which 
Balzac  continually  intrudes  upon  his  story  ; 
and  these  intrusions  are  of  such  a  kind  that, 
were  the  telling  duly  planned  and  put  together 
with  art,  they  would  necessitate  a  complete 
re-casting.  George  Sand  at  least  delivered 
such  dissertations  and  arguments  from  the 
mouths  of  her  characters,  which  helped  some- 
what in  the  telling  of  her  story  and  in  letting 
us  see  into  the  mind  of  the  speakers.  Balzac 
holds  up  his  story,  starts  talking  on  his  own 
account,  and  gives  us  a  lecture.  It  looks  as 
though,  goaded  on  by  the  demon  of  journalism 
— we  know  that  he  founded  a  review  and  often 
tried  to  found  others — and  having  a  lot  of 
reserve  '  copy '  at  the  back  of  his  drawer 
which  he  was  unable  to  get  printed  in  the 
newspapers  of  his  day,  he  drained  it  all  into 
his  novels.  Sometimes  he  starts  off  with  a 
lecture  which  replaces  the  huge  description 
with  which  he  is  so  fond  of  beginning  his 
novels ;  sometimes  his  lectures  are  patched 
on  to  the  fabric  of  his  story  so  brusquely  and 
at  such  length  as  to  rend  it  in  twain.  He 


78  BALZAC 

breaks  off  his  narrative  in  the  Lys  dans  la 
Vallee  in  order  to  pluck  us  by  the  sleeve  and 
say :  t  Notice  how  profoundly  English  love 
differs  from  our  own.  It  is  devastating  and 
volcanic ;  no  one  but  an  Englishman  could 
have  written  Romeo  and  Juliet ;  Juliet's  love 
is  essentially  English.'  I  should  be  more 
inclined  to  believe  that  it  was  Italian,  but  it 
is  not  that  that  I  find  so  little  to  my  liking ; 
it  is  the  sight  of  the  narrative  broken  off  for 
the  sake  of  an  ethnological  lecture.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  at  this  point  neither  did  I  find 
the  story  itself  of  any  further  interest. 

On  the  other  hand,  old  Goriot  gives  Rasti- 
gnac  confidences  of  the  highest  interest.  Ras- 
tignac  is  admirable  in  them ;  but  Balzac 
intervenes  with  '  One  thing  is  worth  notic- 
ing. .  .  .'  Let  us  on  with  our  noticing  then  ! 
'No  matter  how  coarse  a  woman  may  be,  no 
sooner  does  she  express  a  strong  and  genuine 
affection,  than  she  seems  to  give  off  a  particu- 
lar fluid  that  softens  her  features,  lights  up 
her  gestures,  and  gives  a  more  varied  thrill 
to  the  tones  of  her  voice.  The  most  stupid 
creature,  under  the  spur  of  passion,  often  soars 
to  the  greatest  eloquence  of  idea,  though  it  may 
not  be  of  language,  and  seems  to  move  within 


HIS  ART  AND  ITS  MAKE-UP        79 

a  sphere  of  light.  There  was,  at  this  moment, 
in  the  voice  and  gesture  of  this  good  man,  that 
personal  magnetism  that  marks  out  the  great 
actor.  But  are  not  our  finer  feelings  the 
poetry  of  the  will '  [?] 

Rastignac  calls  on  Madame  de  Nucingen,  with 
whom  he  is  not  in  love,  though  he  is  curious 
about  her ;  Balzac  does  not  follow  the  caller, 
but  bids  us  follow  himself  in  these  words  :  '  A 
young  man  perhaps  finds  as  much  charm  in  his 
first  intrigue  as  he  does  in  his  first  love.  Assur- 
ance of  success  has  a  thousandfold  bliss  to 
which  men  do  not  own,  and  the  whole  attrac- 
tion of  certain  women  lies  in  that  desire  is  the 
offspring  no  less  of  hardship  than  of  ease  in 
conquering.  All  the  passions  of  men  are 
assuredly  fanned  into  being  and  their  flames 
fostered  either  by  one  or  the  other  of  these  two 
causes,  which  share  between  them  the  empire 
of  love.  It  may  be  that  this  division  is  settled 
by  the  great  question  of  the  temperaments 
which  dominate — whatever  may  be  said  to  the 
contrary — the  social  world  [ah  !  has  any  one 
ever  denied  the  fact  ?]  If  melancholy  people 
require  coyness  to  spur  them  on,  it  is  likely 
enough  that  nervous  or  full-blooded  folk  would 
retire  from  the  attack  if  resistance  were  too 


80  BALZAC 

prolonged.  In  other  words,  the  elegy  is  just 
as  essentially  lymphatic  as  the  dithyramb  is 
bilious.  .  .  .' 

Madame  Hulot  has  just  shown  indulgence, 
mingled  with  a  vast  deal  of  weakness,  for  her 
husband.  Balzac  draws  us  aside  to  remark : 
'  The  moralist  can  hardly  deny  that  people  who 
are  both  well-bred  and  vicious  may  be  much 
more  pleasant  than  those  who  are  virtuous. 
Having  to  condone  for  their  ill-deeds,  they 
pave  the  way  for  indulgence  by  being  very 
easy-going  with  the  faults  of  those  who  should 
judge  them,  and  so  they  pass  for  excellent 
fellows.  Although  there  are  charming  people 
among  the  virtuous,  virtue  deems  that  her  own 
beauty  should  suffice,  without  her  stooping  to 
win  us  over  ;  and  then  really  righteous  people 
(for  we  must  rule  out  the  hypocrites)  are  nearly 
always  a  little  uneasy  as  to  their  standing ; 
they  think  themselves  cheated  in  the  world's 
wide  market,  and  they  are  rather  apt  to  speak 
sharply  in  the  manner  of  folks  who  fancy 
themselves  slighted.  .  .  .' 

Elsewhere,  because  a  young  artist's  first 
work  happens  to  be  dashing,  he  says  :  '  It  is 
not  every  work  of  genius  which  has  this  degree 
of  brilliance,  this  splendour  that  is  obvious  to 


HIS  ART  AND  ITS  MAKE-UP        81 

every  one,  no  matter  how  ignorant  he  may  be. 
Thus  certain  pictures  of  Raphael,  such  as  the 
celebrated  '  Transfiguration,'  the  '  Madonna  de 
Foligno,'  the  frescoes  of  the  '  Stanze  '  in  the 
Vatican,  do  not  win  our  immediate  homage  as 
do  the  '  Violin  Player  '  in  the  Sciarra  Gallery, 
the  '  Portraits  of  the  Doni '  and  the  4  Vision  of 
Ezekiel '  in  the  Pitti  Gallery,  the  '  Carrying  of 
the  Cross  '  in  the  Borghese  Gallery,  the  '  Mar- 
riage of  the  Virgin  '  in  the  Brera  Museum  at 
Milan.  The  '  Saint  John  the  Baptist '  of  the 
Tribune,  '  Saint  Luke  painting  the  Virgin  '  in 
the  Academy  at  Rome  are  by  no  means  so 
winning  as  the  '  Portrait  of  Leon  x.'  and  the 
4  Virgin  '  at  Dresden.  Nevertheless  they  are 
all  of  equal  worth.  Moreover,  the  '  Stanze,' 
the  '  Transfiguration,'  the  cameos,  and  the 
three  small  easel-pictures  at  the  Vatican  reach 
to  the  highest  level  of  the  perfect  and  the 
sublime.  But  these  masterpieces  strain  the 
understanding  even  of  the  least  -  qualified 
student,  and  require  study  for  their  adequate 
appreciation ;  whereas  the  4  Violinist,'  the 
4  Marriage  of  the  Virgin,'  the  '  Vision  of  Ezekiel ' 
go  straight  through  the  eyes  to  the  heart,  and 
are  at  home  there  ;  you  love  to  welcome  them 
thus  without  the  least  effort.  But  this  is  not 


82  BALZAC 

the  summit  of  art;  it  is  only  its  happiness. 
Here  we  have  a  proof  that  the  creation  of  works 
of  art  is  beset  with  the  same  risks  as  are  births 
in  a  family,  where  we  find  children  so  luckily 
favoured  as  to  be  born  beautiful  and  without 
hurt  to  their  mother,  children  on  whom  every- 
thing smiles,  who  succeed  in  everything  ;  and 
just  as  there  are  flowers  of  genius,  so  there  are 
these  blossoms  of  love.  This  brio  (an  untrans- 
latable Italian  word  which  we  are  beginning 
to  use)  is  characteristic  of  early  works.  It 
springs  from  the  headiness  and  high  mettle  of 
youthful,  untamed  talent  which  is  found  again 
later  on  during  certain  happy  hours  ;  but  this 
brio  then  no  longer  springs  from  the  artist's 
heart,  and,  instead  of  throwing  it  into  his  work 
as  a  volcano  flings  up  its  fire,  he  is  passive 
beneath  its  sway,  he  owes  it  to  circumstances 
— to  love,  to  rivalry,  often  to  hatred,  or  yet 
again  to  the  need  for  keeping  up  his  reputa- 
tion. .  .  .'  The  writing  of  la  Cousine  Bette 
followed  on  Balzac's  return  from  Italy,  and  he 
wanted  to  turn  his  travels  to  account. 

Because  a  young  man  whom  Mme.  Marneffe 
is  bent  on  leading  captive  happens  to  be  Polish, 
he  says,  4  There  is  something  childish  about  the 
Slav,  as  with  all  primitively  savage  peoples 


HIS  ART  AND  ITS  MAKE-UP        83 

[are  not  all  peoples  primitively  savage  ?],  when 
they  have  overflowed  among  the  civilised 
nations  without  being  themselves  really  civil- 
ised. This  race  has  spread  like  a  flood  and  has 
covered  a  vast  extent  of  the  world.  It  inhabits 
deserts  where  the  spaces  are  so  vast  that  it  is  at 
ease  there  ;  they  do  not  jostle  together  as  in 
Europe,  and  civilisation  is  impossible  without 
the  continual  interaction  of  minds  and  of 
interests.  The  Ukraine,  Russia,  the  plains  of 
the  Danube — the  Slav  people,  in  short — is  a 
link  between  Europe  and  Asia,  between  civil- 
isation and  barbarism.  Thus  the  Poles,  the 
richest  section  of  the  Slav  people,  have  the 
characteristic  childishness  and  inconsistency  of 
nations  still  in  their  callow  youth.  .  .  .'  There- 
after follows  a  summary  of  the  history  of  Poland 
which  restriction  of  space  forbids  me  to  quote. 
This  sort  of  thing  is  continual.  Because 
Cousine  Bette  happens  to  have  a  sculptor 
friend,  we  get  the  following  observations : 
'  Sculpture,  like  playwriting,  is  at  once  the 
easiest  and  most  difficult  of  all  the  arts  [??] 
Michael  Angelo,  Michael  Colombes,  Jean  Gou- 
jon,  Phidias,  Praxiteles,  Polycletus,  Pujet, 
Canova,  and  Albert  Diirer  stand  as  brothers 
beside  Milton,  Virgil,  Dante,  Shakespeare, 


84  BALZAC 

Tasso,  Homer,  and  Moliere.  There  is  such 
grandeur  in  the  work  that  a  single  statue  is 
enough  to  win  immortality  for  its  maker.  .  .  . 
If  Paganini  .  .  .'  and  there  follow  two 
further  pages  of  reflections  equally  new, 
original,  and  relevant. 

This  perpetual  commentary  which  accom- 
panies Balzac's  work  is  the  most  tiresome  thing 
in  the  world.  Balzac's  works  are  like  an 
edition  annotated  by  a  blundering,  vulgar,  and 
garrulous  critic  who  has  had  the  hardihood  to 
insert  his  notes  in  the  text,  and  the  critic  is  in 
this  case  no  other  than  Balzac  himself.  He  has 
found  champions  to  defend  him.  We  have 
been  told,  for  example,  that  the  modern  novelist, 
being  a  moralist,  a  psychologist,  and  a  philo- 
sopher, should  be  allowed  to  expound  as  much 
as  he  narrates,  and  to  make  his  work  at  once 
didactic  and  epic.  The  claim  implies  a  con- 
fusion of  kinds.  The  writer  who  sets  out  to 
tell  a  story  ought  not  to  wander  off  into  dis- 
cussions, at  the  risk  of  making  his  tale  weari- 
some, besides  being  mongrel  and  ambiguous 
in  form.  The  writer  who  sets  out  to  instruct 
should  never  indulge  in  story-telling,  save  as  a 
means  of  bringing  proofs  to  bear  in  support  of 
the  thing  he  is  teaching,  and  this  should  be 


HIS  ART  AND  ITS  MAKE-UP        85 

done  by  short,  concise,  and  carefully  chosen 
examples,  lest  his  teaching  be  lost  sight  of,  just  as 
in  the  other  case  the  story-telling  is  overlooked. 

Why  not  mingle  the  two  kinds  ?  Is  it  so 
easy  to  distinguish  between  them  ?  Because 
by  mixing  the  two  together  both  are  weakened 
and  the  final  effect  falls  flat.  And  another 
reason  is  that  by  coming  forward  himself  in  the 
midst  of  his  story,  the  author  obtrudes  and 
seems  too  anxious  lest  he  should  be  overlooked  ; 
and  by  displaying  such  an  overweening  interest 
in  his  own  creations  he  seems  to  say,  '  Aren't 
they  rather  curious,  rather  original,  and  rather 
representative  of  a  certain  social  class,  of  a 
certain  period,  and  of  a  certain  temperament  ?  ' 
And  all  that  is  for  us  to  say  and  not  for  him, 
and  we  do  not  like  to  hear  it  from  his  lips  ; 
the  novelist  who  proceeds  in  this  fashion  may 
perhaps  assume  some  authority  as  a  thinker, 
but  in  Balzac's  case  it  is  quite  otherwise,  and 
merely  detracts  from  his  effectiveness  as  a 
teller  of  tales. 

Yet  another  objection  is  that  if  he  intrudes 
in  support  of  an  argument,  he  is  immediately 
suspected  of  having  drawn  his  people  and 
planned  his  story  with  this  end  in  view,  while 
subordinating  everything  to  that  end,  and  we 


86  BALZAC 

reject  his  claims  as  observer  and  historian.  He 
is  just  like  a  historian  who  upholds  a  special 
theory,  and  is  straight  away  suspected  of 
garbling  his  facts.  It  is  at  once  assumed  of 
the  novelist  with  a  purpose  that  he  has  observed 
nothing  but  what  will  support  the  theory  with 
which  he  set  out,  or  what  will  conveniently 
fall  in  with  that  theory.  Though  this  is  quite 
untrue  of  Balzac,  no  observer  having  ever  been 
more  attentive,  obedient,  and  loyal  to  the  thing 
observed  than  was  he,  yet  he  behaves  through- 
out as  though  it  were  quite  otherwise  with  him, 
and  we  have  the  right  to  expect  him,  far  more 
than  a  lesser  man,  to  avoid  this  blundering, 
and  to  content  himself  with  his  observation 
and  insight,  since  in  these  alone  he  has  so  much 
wealth.  There  is  at  bottom  a  good  deal  of 
truth  in  the  whimsical  saying  of  M.  Anatole 
France,  '  Poets  do  not  think.'  I  would  add, 
with  certain  reserves  which  will  appear  later — 
'  nor  should  they  do  so.'  They  should  be 
deeply  moved  and  should  make  us  share  their 
emotion.  Undoubtedly  there  are  poets  whose 
poetry  is  the  outcome  of  thought.  There  is 
such  a  thing  as  philosophical  poetry,  in  which 
the  poet's  emotion  springs  from  an  idea,  and  it 
is  the  emotion  of  this  idea  that  he  communi- 


HIS  ART  AND  ITS  MAKE-UP        87 

cates.  And  yet  even  a  non-philosophical  poet 
should  think  before  writing,  reflect  on  many 
things,  shuffle  and  re-weld  a  multitude  of  ideas  ; 
but  when  he  conies  to  writing,  his  business  is 
no  longer  to  think  but  to  feel,  or  rather  he 
should  only  begin  writing  after  his  thinking  is 
over,  and  when  emotion  masters  him,  it  being 
quite  understood  at  the  same  time  that  this 
man  who  is  speaking  is  one  who  has  added  to 
his  stature,  grown  finer  and  more  ripe  by  the 
many  ideas  which  have  passed  through  his 
mind.  And  when  we  come  to  the  story-teller, 
the  novelist,  the  epic-writer,  I  claim  that  the 
stress  of  his  thinking  should  have  made  a 
bigger,  stronger,  and  more  fruitful  man  of  him ; 
but  that  when  he  writes  he  should  leave  his 
thinking  on  one  side,  and  be  entirely  possessed 
by  the  creatures  of  his  brain,  seeing  them  too 
vividly  and  following  them  too  ardently  in  the 
unfolding  of  their  lives  to  spare  any  thought 
for  himself,  any  reflection,  any  room  for  general 
ideas  or  discussion  of  problems ;  he  should  be 
too  much  enslaved  also  by  his  own  narra- 
tive— that  is  to  say,  by  the  peremptory  logic 
of  facts  and  by  the  begetting  of  events  each 
the  offspring  of  others,  and  begetting  them 
in  turn — to  have  any  time  for  pondering  on 


88  BALZAC 

anything   else   whatever   save   this   logic    and 
this  fertility. 

The  author  whose  narrative  is  thus  cut  to 
pieces  by  journalistic  articles  gives  me  the 
impression  that  he  writes  six  pages  of  his  novel, 
goes  for  a  walk,  picks  up  a  thought  on  which 
he  happens,  and  jots  it  down  on  returning 
because  it  seems  to  him  to  be  interesting  ;  or 
else  he  makes  me  think  that,  after  having 
written  his  novel,  he  started  flirting  with 
general  ideas,  grasped  hold  of  some  of  them,  and 
set  them  down  on  the  manuscript  of  his  novel. 
But  I  ought,  by  your  leave,  in  reading  a  novel, 
rather  to  get  the  impression  that  the  author 
wrote  it  just  as  I  read  it,  in  a  single  draft  with- 
out any  vacillation  or  turning  back,  borne  away 
and  consumed  by  his  subject ;  and  I  ought 
moreover  to  believe  that,  on  re-reading  his 
finished  work,  he  was  still  held  fascinated, 
solely  by  the  creatures  of  his  brain.  I  should 
rather  say  that  only  that  novel  is  a  good  one 
in  which  I  never  give  a  thought  to  its  writer, 
and  that  an  author  spoils  it  when  he  leads  me 
to  think  of  him. 

And  a  novelist,  like  an  epic  poet — and  I  do  not 
see  why  novelists  should  be  exempt  from  the 
law  to  which  epic  poets  have  always  been 


HIS  ART  AND  ITS  MAKE-UP        89 

subject — should  only  think  through  the  minds 
of  his  characters,  and  ought  not  to  put  his  own 
thoughts  into  their  mouths.  Can  you  conceive 
Virgil  setting  forth  his  notions  on  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul,  the  transmigration  of  souls, 
the  penalties  or  rewards  of  the  beyond,  and  the 
life  of  the  universe.  He  does  so  indeed,  but 
by  means  of  a  narrative  and  of  conversations 
between  Anchises  and  his  son.  The  novelist 
himself  should  never  speak. 

Need  I  say  that  Balzac  has  too  surely  the 
instinct  of  his  craft  not  to  have  submitted  often 
to  this  law,  and  that  he  has  very  often  embodied 
his  ideas  in  the  speech  of  his  characters  (Medecin 
de  Campagne,  Cure  de  Village,  Illusions  per  dues)  ? 
And  yet  he  often  overlooked  this  law  of  which 
he  was  so  well  aware.  A  novelist  himself 
should  never  speak. 

Such  was  the  theory  of  Flaubert,  and  in  his 
work  we  shall  find  perhaps  no  more  than  a  single 
personal  reflection, '  Thus  went  on,  before  these 
cheerful  commonplace  people,  half  a  century  of 
servitude ' ;  such  was  the  theory  of  de  Mau- 
passant; and  it  seems  to  me  that  they  were 
right,  and  that  their  novels  as  they  made  them 
in  nowise  tend  to  prove  them  wrong.  And  the 
fact  that  Balzac,  by  his  own  great  trespassing, 


90  BALZAC 

warned  off  the  great  artists  who  followed  him 
from  likewise  going  astray,  and  gave  them  a 
holy  horror  of  the  writer  who  obtrudes  himself 
on  the  story  he  is  telling,  is  just  one  of  my 
reasons  for  being  grateful  to  him.  Do  you 
recall  Boileau's  line  on  Homer  ? — 

Each  line,  each  word  speeds  onward  to  the  event. 

It  would  be  hard  to  find  a  more  ridiculous  line, 
nor  could  anything  be  less  characteristic  of 
Homer  than  the  thought  which  it  contains, 
the  real  truth  of  the  matter  being  quite  the 
reverse.  And  yet,  had  Boileau  meant  to  say 
that  the  march  of  Homer's  narrative,  although 
slow  and  winding,  is  never  interrupted,  that 
though  there  are  passages  that  are  long  drawn 
out,  there  is  never  any  turning  aside,  and  that 
the  author  never  indulges  in  personal  reflections 
— had  he  meant  no  more  than  that,  he  would 
have  been  quite  right.  Our  nineteenth-century 
Homer  is  very  different,  and  his  person  is 
singularly  obtrusive. 

It  was  a  fault  inherent  in  his  very  tempera- 
ment, in  the  strong  individuality  which  he 
could  never  put  aside,  in  his  liking  for  thrashing 
everything  out  in  interminable  talk,  in  his 
garrulity,  and  in  his  incorrigible  weakness  for 


HIS  ART  AND  ITS  MAKE-UP        91 

appearing  before  the  footlights.  Certainly  he 
yielded  himself  entirely  to  his  subject,  as  well 
as  being  wholly  given  up  to  his  characters  and 
to  his  narrative,  though  never  to  the  extent 
of  self-effacement ;  and  the  man  who  by 
nature  should  have  been  best  able  to  avoid 
the  pitfall  of  personal  obtrusion  in  his  work, 
is  just  the  man  who  fell  into  it  the  oftenest. 
The  art  of  composition  which  was  his  suffered 
great  hurt  from  his  stumbling. 


92  BALZAC 


HIS    CHARACTERS 

IT  is  as  a  creator  of  beings  that  are  alive  with 
vital  strength,  and  in  this  sort  the  peer  of 
Homer,  Shakespeare,  and  Moliere,  that  Balzac 
showed  his  outstanding  greatness;  and  this 
quality  being  both  the  rarest  and  finest  of  an 
artist's  equipment  and  throwing  into  the  back- 
ground every  flaw  or  failing,  he  has  made  a 
great  impression  on  his  fellow-mortals,  and 
achieved  a  fame  that  remains  unmarred  by  the 
onslaughts  of  time. 

He  had  a  singular  gift  for  observing — not 
perhaps  so  very  much  greater  than  that  of 
many  others,  even  inferior,  I  should  say,  to  the 
faculty  possessed  by  La  Bruyere  or  Saint- 
Simon,  and  yet,  when  all  is  said,  very  great 
indeed — a  gift  which  was  in  no  way  burdened 
or  blunted  by  bookish  memories,  a  gift  which 
allowed  Balzac  the  very  rare  privilege  of 
looking  on  everything  and  everybody  with 
freshly  opened  eyes :  but  above  and  beyond 


HIS  CHARACTERS  93 

everything  else  he  had  an  imagination  which, 
starting  from  the  slightest  observation  and 
following  it  up  with  sedulous  fidelity,  drew 
from  it  such  fulness  of  meaning  that  it  became 
a  poem,  rich,  varied,  and  full  of  life. 

He  really  had  imagination,  the  thing  in 
itself,  and  not  the  shallow  counterpart  that 
fulfils  itself  in  words,  which  creates  metaphors, 
laboriously  builds  up  symbols  ;  but  the  genuine 
imagination  that  creates  things,  living  people, 
and  events. 

Things  :  since  the  things  which  he  describes 
take  on  a  distinct  physiognomy,  a  life,  and  a  soul, 
he  can  show  us  a  house  as  4  a  state  of  mind,5 
just  as  Amiel  saw  landscape.  One  house  is  a 
resigned  misery  ;  another  has  the  air  of  a  dumb 
tomb  crammed  with  gold ;  another  stands  for 
open-heartedness  of  a  gentle  and  rather  sleepy 
kind ;  another  is  pompous  and  overbearing 
pride ;  and  yet  another  is  slyness  and  double- 
dealing  personified  in  stone. 

Living  people  :  since  the  men  and  women 
whom  he  shows  us  are  just  as  familiar  as  the 
living  people  whom  we  meet  with  daily,  nay, 
they  are  more  so,  and — here  is  the  proof  of  it — 
we  see  in  them  not  merely  what  he  shows  us, 
but  even  the  things  that  he  withholds ;  we 


94  BALZAC 

know  on  what  errands  they  have  been  speeding 
without  his  guidance,  and  what  thoughts  have 
come  to  them  even  when  he  leaves  these  unre- 
vealed,  and  what  words  they  have  spoken  when 
he  has  not  thought  it  his  duty  to  set  down  their 
speech  for  us.  They  are  beings  whom  we  know 
so  thoroughly  that  we  are  ourselves  able  to 
reconstitute  and  reconstruct  the  parts  which 
he  has  not  shown  us,  just  as  I  have  a  sure 
knowledge  of  the  childhood  of  Achilles,  the 
youth  of  lago  or  of  Tartuffe,  even  though 
Homer,  Shakespeare,  and  Moliere  have  told  me 
nothing  about  them. 

Events  :  since  in  Balzac  an  event  is  nearly 
always  the  outcome  of  the  inexorable  interplay 
of  successive  factors,  dominated  by  a  mind 
that  commands  the  whole  of  them,  embracing 
all,  and  with  such  complete  mastery  that  in 
him  alone  it  seems  to  have  both  life  and  dwell- 
ing, like  Minerva  in  the  brain  of  Jove. 

He  thus  dwelt  in  a  world  which  he  begat 
from  his  observation  even  when  it  was  fleeting, 
a  world  entirely  of  his  own  fashioning,  of  whose 
life  and  action  he  was  the  source.  Logical, 
complete,  and  lifelike  creatures  sprang  from 
his  brain  and  moved  before  his  eyes  as  they 
now  move  before  ours.  And  they  acted,  every 


HIS  CHARACTERS  95 

one  of  them,  with  the  inevitable  speech  and  the 
inevitable  deed  befitting  their  temperament, 
education,  or  environment,  with  the  character 
proper  to  their  breeding  or  constitution,  with 
habits  suiting  their  character,  notions  suiting 
these  habits,  words  proper  to  their  ideas  and 
deeds  to  their  language  ;  full,  solid,  completely 
put  together  and  set  going,  some  of  them  most 
complex  and  others  at  times  too  simple  (and 
this  is  a  point  to  which  we  shall  recur  later), — 
but  all  alike  alive  and  breathing. 

This  is  the  outstanding  feature,  and  it  is  the 
one  endowment  essential  to  the  artist :  the 
feeling  of  life,  and  the  power  to  produce  the 
illusion  of  it. 

This  power  which  he  possessed  in  so  extra- 
ordinary a  degree  was  strengthened  and  given 
fuller  scope  by  his  gift  for  seeing  things  and 
people  in  detail.  It  is  not  the  same  faculty. 
Artists  so  great  as  Corneille  and  Victor  Hugo 
are  without  it.  They  can  only  create  life  that 
is  ample  and  strong ;  either  they  despise  or 
they  are  insensible  to  the  small  things  of  life, 
and  their  contempt  for  them  can  only  result 
from  want  of  sensibility ;  the  watching  or 
pursuit  of  slight  and  apparently  insignificant 
clues  is  quite  beyond  them,  though  it  is  just 


96  BALZAC 

these  which  give  both  to  beings  and  to  things 
the  special  aspect  by  which  we  know  them. 
To  understand  this  properly,  just  think  of  what 
we  ordinary  everyday  people  are  like.  We 
say  '  So-and-so  seems  a  good  sort,'  or  4 1  don't 
like  the  look  of  What  's-his-name.'  We  have  a 
general  impression,  right  enough  perhaps,  but  a 
trifle  vague.  Now,  the  impression  which  we 
get  is  the  outcome  of  a  hundred  details  uncon- 
sciously absorbed.  The  great  artist  sees  the 
whole  of  them,  but  picks  out  and  sets  down 
only  the  most  telling,  so  that,  on  meeting  with 
each  one,  we  exclaim,  '  How  true  that  is  !  I  've 
noticed  the  same  thing.'  But  we  have  not 
really  noticed  it ;  we  have  only  glimpsed  it, 
and  not  until  the  artist  reveals  it  to  us  does 
the  detail  stand  out,  at  his  bidding,  from  the 
background  of  our  darkened  memory. 

Perhaps  no  one  ever  had  such  a  faculty 
of  impressive  observation,  of  tenacious  and 
illuminative  memory,  as  was  Balzac's.  That 
was  enough  to  make  him  a  great  novelist ;  but 
it  was  not  all.  He  had  the  gift  of  seeing  in  his 
mind  and  bringing  into  life  there  ensembles, 
groups  of  humanity,  almost  organised  societies 
with  the  action  and  reaction  of  its  various 
individuals  on  each  other.  And  this  is  an 


HIS  CHARACTERS  97 

absolutely  higher  endowment.  The  number 
of  those  who  have  been  thus  gifted  is  soon 
counted.  Shakespeare  and  Moliere  are  the 
most  illustrious.  Wielding  this  power,  the 
novelist  becomes  a  kind  of  epic  poet ;  not 
merely  does  he  create  life,  not  merely  does  he 
surprise  it  in  the  most  trivial  of  his  character- 
istic details,  but  he  embraces  the  ample  whole, 
and  each  creature  of  his  brain,  though  already 
living,  is  nourished  into  fuller  life  by  contact, 
interaction,  and  impulse  from  the  life  of  all  the 
others.  A  world  has  been  created  of  which 
Balzac  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  creator. 
When  la  Comedie  Humaine  occurred  to  Balzac 
as  a  general  title  for  all  his  works  (exclusive  of 
his  'prentice  tales),  it  was  due  to  nothing  else 
than  an  attack  of  megalomania  or  the  idea  of 
a  smart  tradesman ;  and  yet  he  saw  a  truth 
(though  he  exaggerated  it  to  a  fanciful  degree), 
the  real  truth  being  that  his  characters,  always 
living  in  his  mind,  and  hence  reappearing  from 
novel  to  novel,  older  or  younger,  in  different 
circumstances  or  different  surroundings,  but 
with  a  recognisable  basis  of  the  personal 
mannerism  or  commonplace  proper  to  them, 
do  indeed  form  a  society,  a  people,  a  nation 
which  is  almost  real,  just  as  for  the  poets  of 


98  BALZAC 

antiquity  the  gods  of  Olympus  are  a  race  of 
individuals  with  distinct  characters  which  they 
preserve  throughout  all  their  various  vicissi- 
tudes, and  of  which  their  dealings  one  with 
another  serve  only  to  accentuate  the  moral 
aspect.  Balzac  felt  that  he  had  created  his 
own  special  mythology,  and  in  that  he  was 
quite  right.  He  created  a  real  living  world, 
limited  indeed,  and  far  from  fulfilling  the  show- 
man's title  that  he  gave  it,  but  yet  a  real  world 
that  within  its  own  limits  was  alive  with 
intense  life.  It  is  a  pity  that  Moliere,  his 
peer  as  a  creator  of  a  living  world  of  men  and 
women,  did  not  pursue  the  careers  of  his  various 
characters  from  one  piece  to  another,  so  that 
we  might  have  seen  Chrysale  in  the  guise  of  an 
elder  Sganarelle  (in  rficole  des  Maris),  Tartuffe 
as  an  elderly  Don  Juan,  and  so  on.  But 
perhaps  I  am  going  astray. 

Just  as  La  Bruyere  had  done  more  rarely 
(in  le  Riche  el  le  Pauvre),  and  just  as  Moliere 
was  so  fond  of  doing  (in  the  portrait  of  Tartuffe 
by  Dorine),  with  a  fondness  which,  unfortun- 
ately for  us,  he  might  very  well  have  forgone, 
since  he  placed  his  characters  in  flesh  and  blood 
on  the  boards  of  a  theatre,  Balzac  set  himself 
first  of  all  to  the  visualisation  of  his  characters 


HIS  CHARACTERS  99 

in  their  physical  aspect,  down  to  the  smallest 
detail.  Then  he  gave  them  a  name,  under  the 
delusion  that  there  is  some  analogy  between  a 
man's  name  and  his  character ;  but  quite  rightly 
persuaded  that  certain  names  stir  up  ideas 
which  are  gratified  on  discovering  that  their 
bearers  happen  to  fit  them  perfectly.  Next, 
he  sought  from  out  of  his  memory  or  he  in- 
vented a  dwelling  that  should  exactly  fit  the 
character  which  he  saw  before  him,  a  dwelling 
that  should  explain  the  character,  and  by  whom 
it  should  in  turn  be  explained.  Then  he 
wrought  on  the  character  already  conceived, 
as  a  well-informed  psychologist  who  was  at  the 
same  time  very  clever  in  filling  up  the  gaps  in 
his  knowledge  by  guesswork,  founded  on  the 
hints  which  he  got  from  what  he  already  knew  ; 
and  a  man  who  can  do  this  has  mastered  the 
logic  of  his  characters.  And  last  of  all,  he  set 
about  the  real  work  proper  to  the  novelist,  by 
inventing  such  events  as  would  put  his  char- 
acter in  proper  relation  to  his  chosen  scene,  and 
he  deduced  such  events  as  were  the  necessary 
or  probable  outcome  of  the  character  with 
whom  he  was  dealing. 

He  saw,  as  I  have  said,  his  creation  physically 
down   to   the    smallest    detail,    but   with   an 


100  BALZAC 

essential  outstanding  feature  which  gave  to  it 
a  special  unity  or  mark,  and  he  knew  how  to 
drive  this  home  and  mark  it  indelibly  in  the 
reader's  mind.  This  can  hardly  be  properly 
shown  save  by  examples.  Mme.  Vauquer,  the 
boarding-house  proprietress  :  '  Soon  the  widow 
appears,  decked  in  a  bonnet  from  under  which 
there  peeps  a  draggled  wisp  of  hair ;  she 
traipses  along  in  her  crinkled  slippers.  Her 
plump  but  withered  face  from  the  midst  of 
which  stands  out  a  nose  like  a  parrot's  beak  ; 
her  plump  little  hands,  her  body  as  sleek  and 
well-favoured  as  a  church  rat,  her  bodice  ready 
to  burst  and  shifting  as  she  moves,  are  all 
in  keeping  with  that  room  where  misfortune 
oozes  out  and  speculation  cowers,  and  where 
Mme.  Vauquer  breathes  the  stuffy  and  unwhole- 
some air  without  being  sickened  by  it.  Her 
face  chill  as  the  first  autumnal  frost,  her  wrinkled 
eyes  whose  expression  varies  from  the  simper 
of  a  ballet-girl  to  the  sharp  frown  of  the  money- 
changer, in  short  her  whole  person  explains 
the  boarding-house,  as  the  boarding-house 
implies  her  person.  The  faded  plumpness  of 
this  little  woman  is  just  as  consequent  on  the 
life  she  leads  as  is  typhus  from  the  exhalations 
of  a  hospital.' 


HIS  CHARACTERS  101 

4  Old  Mile.  Michonneau  wore  above  her  eyes 
a  filthy  shade  of  green  taffety,  rimmed  with 
iron-wire,  which  would  have  frightened  away 
the  very  angel  of  pity ;  her  shawl,  with  its 
thin  and  weeping  fringes,  seemed  to  cloak  a 
skeleton,  so  many-cornered  were  the  features 
it  covered.  What  acid  had  eaten  away  all  her 
feminine  contours  ?  She  must  once  have  been 
quite  pretty.  Was  it  vice,  or  sorrow,  or 
cupidity  ?  Had  she  loved  too  well,  had  she 
been  a  dealer  in  ladies'  left-off  clothing,  or 
merely  a  courtesan  ?  Her  blank  look  was 
chilling,  her  wizened  face  threatening ;  she 
had  the  shrill  voice  of  the  grasshopper  screeching 
in  its  bush  at  the  approach  of  winter.' 

What  gives  that  portrait  its  unity,  what 
gathers  it  all  up  into  a  single  impression,  a 
single  feeling,  is  the  idea  of  chilliness.  She 
herself  is  cold  under  clothes  as  '  slender '  as 
herself ;  she  is  like  a  skeleton ;  she  is  eaten 
away  as  by  an  acid ;  her  wan  look  is  like  cold 
water  or  frosted  mica ;  her  voice  is  chilling, 
sharp,  and  shrill  as  that  of  a  grasshopper ;  but 
as  a  grasshopper  reminds  you  of  summer,  the 
author  hastens  to  add  '  at  the  approach  of 
winter  '  (which,  by  the  way,  is  wrong,  for  at  the 
approach  of  winter  grasshoppers  are  dead). 


102  BALZAC 

Mile.  Michonneau  is  as  gaunt  and  skinny  and 
sharp  and  chilly  as  winter.  She  is  winter's 
blast  itself. 

'  M.  Poiret  was  a  kind  of  mechanism.  On 
seeing  him  stretching  himself  out  like  a  grey 
shadow  in  a  walk  at  the  Zoological  Gardens, 
wearing  on  his  head  a  limp  cap,  scarcely 
grasping  his  walking-stick,  with  a  yellowing 
book  in  his  hand,  the  faded  lappets  of  his  over- 
coat floating  loose  and  ill  concealing  almost 
empty  breeches  and  blue-hosed  spindle-shanks 
that  shook  like  a  drunkard's,  and  showing  his 
dingy  white  waistcoat  and  his  coarse  crumpled 
muslin  shirt-frill  that  matched  but  ill  with  the 
black  tie  round  his  scraggy  turkey  neck,  many 
people  wondered  whether  that  Chinese  shadow 
really  belonged  to  the  hardy  seed  of  Japheth's 
sons  that  went  hovering  over  the  Boulevard 
des  Italiens.  What  sort  of  work  was  it  that 
had  shrivelled  him  up  like  that  ?  What  had 
he  been  ?  Why,  no  doubt  a  clerk  in  some 
office.  .  .  .' 

This  is  the  portrait  of  a  man  that  has  never 
been  anything  more  than  a  mere  cog-wheel. 
The  very  first  word  shows  it :  '  He  was  a  kind 
of  mechanism.'  All  the  rest  refers  and  brings 
us  back  to  that.  Physically,  he  is  but  a  shadow ; 


HIS  CHARACTERS  103 

he  takes  up  but  little  room,  and  slips  between 
two  layers  of  air  so  closely  that  they  are  hardly 
disturbed  by  his  passing.  He  exists  as  little 
as  may  be,  having  never  been  more  than  an 
almost  futile  sheet  flattened  down  between  two 
other  sheets  in  the  social  book.  His  dress  is 
not  wholly  careless  ;  but  it  is  old-fashioned  and 
piteous  ;  old-fashioned,  for  no  change  in  social 
position  ever  led  the  wearer  to  alter  it ;  piteous, 
for  his  poverty  forbids  its  renewal,  and  his 
physiological  wretchedness  appears  through  it 
and  brings  home  to  him  his  guilt.  A  social 
waif  who  remains  neat  and  not  without  a  cer- 
tain dignity  (as  witnessed  by  his  shirt-frill), 
but  pitiful  and,  above  all,  ridiculous. 

'  Though  Mile.  Victorine  Taillefer  had  a 
sickly  whiteness  like  that  of  young  girls  suffer- 
ing from  chlorosis,  and  though  she  was  con- 
nected with  the  general  suffering  that  formed 
the  background  of  this  picture,  by  a  habitual 
sadness,  a  worried  face,  a  poor  and  weakly  air, 
she  had,  notwithstanding  all  this,  a  face  that 
was  not  old,  and  a  voice  and  movements  that 
were  lively  enough.  Her  young  sorrow  seemed 
like  a  shrub  with  its  leaves  turned  yellow  from 
having  been  newly  planted  in  uncongenial  soil. 
Her  reddish  physiognomy  [badly  written,  for 


104  BALZAC 

it  was  not  her  physiognomy  which  was  reddish 
but  her  face  itself],  her  tawny  fair  hair,  her 
too  slender  waist,  expressed  the  sort  of  grace 
which  modern  poets  find  in  statues  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  Her  dark  grey  eyes  expressed 
Christian  meekness  and  resignation.  Her 
simple  and  inexpensive  clothing  betrayed  her 
youthful  contours.  Had  she  been  happy  she 
would  have  been  quite  ravishing  ;  happiness 
is  woman's  poetry.  Had  the  joy  of  a  ball 
reflected  its  rosy  hues  on  that  face  turned 
pale  already  ;  had  the  softness  of  good  living 
smoothed  out  her  shrunken  cheeks  and  made 
them  ruddy  instead  ;  had  love  given  life  anew 
to  her  melancholy  eyes,  Victorine  might  have 
matched  the  finest  of  belles.' 

The  key  to  the  understanding  of  the  text  is 
here  the  likening  of  Victorine  to  a  shrub  newly 
transplanted  into  uncongenial  soil,  the  leaves 
of  which  have  turned  yellow.  Victorine  has 
fortuitous  bad  health.  Red-haired  and  dark- 
eyed,  she  is  at  bottom  of  robust  health  ;  she  is 
pretty  and  well-shaped ;  but  poverty  trans- 
planted her  into  an  unhealthy  dwelling  ;  she  is 
withering  away ;  slender  as  she  is,  she  is  be- 
coming still  more  markedly  so;  pretty,  she  is 
losing  the  distinction  of  her  features ;  though 


HIS  CHARACTERS  105 

winning,  she  is  without  mirth ;  you  might  almost 
say  that  her  beauty  has  turned  inward.  She 
has  none  of  that  outward  blossoming  which  is 
only  begotten  of  happiness  or  the  illusion  of  it. 
In  years  to  come  she  will  be  a  Mile.  Michonneau, 
and  the  shade  with  the  iron-wire  will  welcome 
her  dark  grey  eyes  after  long  weeping.  She  is 
a  shrub  newly  transplanted  into  uncongenial 
soil,  that  is  all ;  the  description  of  this  girl  can 
all  be  referred  back  to  that  definition,  charm- 
ing, moreover,  in  its  wistful  melancholy. 

'  Mr.  Vautrin,  a  man  of  forty,  was  one  of  those 
people  of  whom  it  is  said,  "  He  's  an  awfully 
fine  fellow."  He  had  broad  shoulders,  a  well- 
developed  chest,  muscles  that  stood  out,  hands 
that  were  thick  and  square,  and  his  knuckles 
were  remarkable  for  the  thick  red  hairs  that 
grew  on  them  in  tufts.  His  face  furrowed 
by  premature  wrinkles  suggested  a  harshness 
which  his  simple  and  affable  ways  belied.  His 
bass  voice,  harmonising  with  his  coarse  cheer- 
fulness, was  not  displeasing.  He  was  obliging 
and  fond  of  laughing.  If  a  lock  went  wrong, 
he  soon  took  it  to  pieces,  mended,  oiled,  and 
fitted  it  together  again,  saying,  "  That 's  my 
hobby."  For  he  knew  everything  :  ships,  the 
sea,  France,  foreign  countries,  business,  men, 


106  BALZAC 

events,  the  law,  hotels,  and  prisons.  If  any  one 
made  any  show  of  a  grievance  he  at  once  offered 
his  services.  He  had  several  times  lent  money 
to  Mme.  Vauquer  and  to  some  of  her  boarders, 
but  those  whom  he  had  obliged  would  rather 
have  died  than  not  pay  him  back,  so  much  did 
he  impress  them  with  fear,  in  spite  of  his  good- 
natured  air,  by  the  deep  and  resolute  glance  that 
he  gave  them.  The  way  in  which  he  would 
spit  out  saliva  bespoke  an  imperturbable  self- 
control  which  would  never  allow  him  to  shrink 
even  from  the  committal  of  a  crime  to  get  him- 
self out  of  a  tight  corner.  Like  a  stern  judge, 
his  eye  seemed  to  fathom  the  depths  of  every 
question,  of  every  conscience,  of  every  feeling. 
.  .  .  He  knew  or  he  guessed  the  affairs  of 
everybody  about  him,  whilst  no  one  could 
fathom  either  his  thoughts  or  his  occupations. 
Although  he  had  set  up  his  seeming  good 
nature,  his  never-failing  kindness  and  gaiety, 
as  a  barrier  between  himself  and  others,  yet 
the  appalling  depth  of  his  character  would  often 
break  through  it  and  stand  revealed.' 

Vautrin  is  a  bandit,  and  yet  a  man  of  power- 
ful intelligence  and  will.  But  for  the  proper 
conduct  of  his  story  it  is  necessary  that  the 
author  should  avoid  saying  so  at  the  outset. 


HIS  CHARACTERS  107 

That  is  why  he  introduces  him  at  first  only  as 
a  man  who  is  disquieting.  He  is  physically 
strong  and  robust,  and  fit  for  endurance.  He 
is  a  good  sort  of  fellow,  cheerful,  always  jolly 
and  comforting.  You  cannot  help  finding  him 
attractive.  You  are  grateful  to  him  for  his 
good  health,  and  that  is  only  human.  But  he 
is  unfathomable ;  nobody  knows  anything 
about  him,  nor  what  he  does,  and  people  more 
wideawake  than  those  at  the  Vauquer  pension 
would  have  got  uneasy  about  it ;  still,  they  are 
all  of  them  unconsciously  somewhat  awe- 
stricken,  not  so  much  from  their  knowing 
nothing  about  him  as  for  the  feeling  they  have 
that  he  guesses  every  one  of  their  thoughts. 
He  has,  moreover,  a  certain  deep  and  penetrat- 
ing glance  and  a  certain  harshness  in  his  face 
when  not  smiling,  which  compare  oddly  with 
his  accommodating  ways,  and  which  would 
certainly  in  less  sluggish  minds  raise  a  suspicion 
that  they  were  not  genuine.  To  finish  up  with, 
he  is  rather  too  clever  at  undoing  locks.  All 
these  traits  go  to  make  up  the  disquieting 
character,  not  merely  for  the  boarders,  but  also 
for  the  reader,  by  inducing  him  to  suspect  a 
freebooter,  which  is  just  what  the  author 
wants.  For  the  moment  the  portrait  is  com- 


108  BALZAC 

plete  ;  thenceforward  we  have  the  idea  of  a 
man  at  once  energetic  and  clever,  resolute  and 
cunning,  self-controlled,  self-assured,  without 
prejudices  or  foibles,  who  can  hardly  be  any- 
thing else  than  a  criminal  or  a  detective.  This 
portrait  in  subdued  colour,  drawn  with  broad 
lines  both  skilful  and  deep,  is  surprisingly 
fine. 

A  miser  in  his  own  room  :  '  Would  you  have 
a  clear  notion  of  that  pale  leaden-hued  face 
(which  I  would  term  moonlike  if  only  the 
Academy  would  allow l)  ?  It  looked  like  tar- 
nished silver-gilt.  The  hair  of  my  miser  was 
straight,  nicely  combed,  and  of  an  ashy  grey 
colour.  His  features,  impassive  as  those  of 
Talleyrand,  seemed  as  though  they  had  been 
cast  in  bronze.  His  small  eyes,  yellow  as  those 
of  a  weasel,  had  scarcely  any  lashes,  and  light 
hurt  them  ;  but  the  peak  of  an  old  cap  screened 
them  from  it.  His  pointed  nose  was  so  pitted 
at  the  end  with  smallpox  that  you  might  have 
likened  it  to  a  gimlet.  He  had  thin  lips  like 
those  of  the  alchemists  and  small  old  men 
painted  by  Rembrandt  or  Metzu.  He  spoke 

1  False  note.  I  understand  quite  well  that  Balzac  calls  it  moonlike 
because  it  is  pale  and  leaden-hued  ;  but  a  moonlike  face  must  always 
bring  to  mind  a  round  and  beaming  one,  whereas  the  face  of  a 
miser  (as  that  of  Balzac's  here)  is  just  the  reverse. 


HIS  CHARACTERS  109 

in  a  low,  mild  voice,  and  never  lost  his  temper. 
His  age  was  problematical :  it  was  impossible 
to  know  whether  he  had  grown  old  before  his 
time  or  whether  he  had  spared  his  youth  so 
that  it  might  always  prove  useful  to  him. 
Everything  was  neat  and  shabby  in  his  bed- 
room, which,  from  the  green  tablecloth  on  the 
writing-desk  down  to  the  carpet  near  the  bed, 
looked  like  the  chill  sanctuary  of  those  poor 
spinsters  who  spend  their  lives  in  polishing 
their  furniture.  In  winter  the  logs  on  his 
hearth,  for  ever  buried  under  a  heap  of  ashes, 
smouldered  without  ever  blazing  up.  All  his 
movements,  from  the  very  hour  of  his  getting 
up  to  his  fits  of  coughing  at  night,  were  as 
regular  as  the  ticking  of  a  clock.  .  .  .  Touch 
a  wood-louse  when  it  is  running  across  a  piece 
of  paper,  and  it  stops  and  pretends  to  be  dead. 
In  the  same  way  he  would  stop  short  in  his 
speech  and  say  nothing  when  a  carriage  rattled 
by,  so  as  not  to  strain  his  voice.  Just  as 
Fontenelle,  he  was  sparing  of  vital  activity, 
and  concentrated  every  human  feeling  on  his 
own  self.  And  his  life  slipped  by,  producing 
no  more  stir  than  the  sand  in  an  ancient  hour- 
glass. It  would  sometimes  happen  that  his 
victims  made  a  great  deal  of  fuss  and  browbeat 


110  BALZAC 

him ;  but  subsequently  everything  would  re- 
lapse into  silence,  like  a  kitchen  after  the 
killing  of  a  duck.  Towards  evening  this  human 
bank-note  became  an  ordinary  man,  and  his 
coins  became  a  human  heart.  Were  he  well 
satisfied  with  his  day's  work,  he  would  rub  his 
hands,  letting  off  all  through  the  crinkled  lines 
of  his  face  a  sort  of  cheery  perspiration,  for  it 
is  impossible  otherwise  to  express  the  silent 
play  of  his  muscles  which  gave  outward  seem- 
ing to  a  sensation  comparable  to  the  empty 
laugh  of  Bas  de  cuir.  Lastly,  even  in  his 
most  joyous  transports  his  conversation  re- 
mained monosyllabic  and  his  expression  of  face 
entirely  null.' 

The  main  feature  of  that  wonderful  portrait 
lies  in  the  power  of  silence.  Gobseck  keeps 
silent ;  that  is  the  first  and  chiefest  indication 
of  his  strength.  Gobseck  keeps  silent ;  his 
thin  and  close-drawn  lips  keep  silent,  his  very 
words  are  silent,  for  monosyllables  make  silence 
much  more  marked  than  uttered  sounds ;  his 
laugh  is  silent,  his  steps  and  movements  must 
be  so  as  well,  and  in  the  gravest  ordeals,  when 
the  victim  is  brought  to  bay  and  stands  cowed, 
silence  in  both  victim  and  executioner  seems 
to  cleave  the  air  like  a  blade.  This  room  is  the 


HIS  CHARACTERS  111 

dwelling  not  exactly  of  the  silence  of  death, 
but  of  deadly  silence. 

Notice  the  difference  between  him  and 
Grandet.  Gobseck  and  Grandet  are  undoubt- 
edly of  the  same  kindred.  Now  Grandet 
talks  and  stammers  and  stutters,  but  still  he 
talks,  and  a  good  deal  too.  Gobseck  does  not. 
Why  is  this  so  ?  Because  Grandet  is  a  miser, 
and,  when  needs  be,  a  usurer,  but  he  is  above  all 
a  greedy  speculator  :  he  drives  bargains,  nay 
he  spends  all  his  life  in  doing  nothing  but  that, 
and  a  bargain- driver  must  talk  without  ever 
even  tiring,  and  at  the  same  time  in  an  arti- 
ficially difficult  way  so  as  to  perplex  and  weary 
his  adversary.  Gobseck  drives  no  bargains. 
He  lends  money  at  such  and  such  a  rate.  This 
being  settled,  he  has  only  got  to  fight  and  carry 
the  day  by  obstinacy,  unconquerable  obstinacy 
and  chilly  silence,  by  his  yes,  no,  if,  and  what  I 
said,  by  the  impassiveness  of  his  features  and 
his  impenetrable  mask,  all  of  which  are  the 
very  shapes  of  irresistible  stubbornness.  Just 
as  Grandet  must  speak,  so  Gobseck  must  be 
silent. 

Now  see  the  physical  likenesses  of  the  same 
woman  at  various  ages  following  on  events 
which  have  modified  her.  Cousin  Bette  when 


112  BALZAC 

she  was  twenty-five :  '  At  first  when  she  fos- 
tered hopes,  the  secret  of  which  she  never 
shared  with  a  soul,  she  made  up  her  mind  to 
wear  corsets,  to  follow  the  fashion,  and  she 
became  for  a  time  so  smart  that  the  baron 
thought  her  marriageable.  Lisbeth  was  then 
the  "  attractive  brunette  "  of  the  old-fashioned 
French  novel.  Her  piercing  eyes,  her  olive- 
hued  complexion,  her  reed-like  waist  could 
tempt  a  major  on  half-pay ;  but  she  used  to 
say  with  a  laugh  that  her  own  admiration  was 
quite  enough  for  her.  .  .  .' 

When  she  was  forty-five  :  4  In  course  of 
time  she  had  fallen  into  queer  old-maidish 
ways.  For  instance,  instead  of  bowing  to 
fashion,  she  would  have  it  suit  her  own  foibles 
and  comply  with  her  own  obsolete  fads.  If 
the  baroness  gave  her  a  pretty  new  hat,  or  any 
dress  of  fashionable  cut,  Cousin  Bette  would 
at  once  pull  it  to  pieces  and  spoil  it  by  making 
it  into  something  which  partook  both  of  the 
Imperial  style  and  the  olden  Lorrain  costumes. 
.  .  .  She  held  herself  as  upright  as  a  stick. 
Now  an  ungraceful  woman  goes  for  nothing  at 
Paris.  And  then  that  dark  hair,  those  beauti- 
ful stern  eyes,  the  rigid  lines  of  her  face,  that 
Calabrian  dryness  of  complexion  gave  Cousin 


HIS  CHARACTERS  113 

Bette  the  appearance  of  one  of  Giotto's  por- 
traits (and  all  these  things  a  true  Parisienne 
would  have  turned  to  good  account) ;  her  bear- 
ing above  all  made  her  look  so  odd  that  she 
sometimes  resembled  those  monkeys  dressed 
like  women  which  the  little  Savoyard  urchins 
carry  about  with  them.' 

At  both  ages  the  central,  the  outstanding 
characteristic  is  her  dryness,  stiffness,  and  lack 
of  grace.  At  both  ages  we  are  concerned  with 
some  one  who  has  never  known  the  milk  of 
human  kindness  ;  although  by  lapse  of  time 
her  dryness  has  become  more  marked,  her 
stiffness  more  unyielding,  her  piercing  look  has 
turned  into  the  beautiful  stern  glance,  and  the 
olive-hued  complexion  into  the  Calabrian  ochre ; 
if  you  add  to  this  the  eccentricity  of  her  dress, 
which  bespeaks  a  restive  and  stubborn  char- 
acter, the  portrait  of  the  '  old  goat '  first 
sketched  as  the  young  kid  is  seen  to  be  com- 
plete. 

Then  there  is  Monsieur  Goriot  at  sixty-two, 
rich  and  happy  and  glad  to  be  alive  ;  and  Old 
Goriot  at  sixty-five  or  six,  ruined,  broken  down, 
and  worn  away  with  grief. 

First  of  all  Monsieur  Goriot :  c  Goriot 
arrived,  provided  with  a  well-furnished  ward- 

H 


114  BALZAC 

robe,  the  magnificent  outfit  proper  to  a  mer- 
chant who  need  stint  himself  of  nothing  on 
retiring  from  business.  Madame  Vauquer  had 
admired  the  dozen  and  a  half  fine  Holland 
linen  shirts,  whose  fineness  was  the  more  notice- 
able from  the  fact  that  the  manufacturer  of 
vermicelli  wore  on  his  shirt-front  two  diamond- 
studded  pins  joined  together  by  a  little  chain. 
Habitually  dressed  in  bottle-blue  clothes,  he 
had  every  day  a  new  white  quilted  waistcoat 
under  which  his  pear-shaped  and  prominent 
stomach  fluctuated,  swaying  to  and  fro  a 
massive  gold  chain  hung  with  trinkets.  His 
snuff-box,  likewise  of  gold,  had  a  locket  of 
hair  inset,  and  this  gave  him  the  air  of  being 
an  amorous  adventurer.  When  his  hostess 
accused  him  of  being  a  dandy,  he  let  the  happy 
smile  of  the  bourgeois  whose  vanity  has  been 
flattered  hover  on  his  lips.' 

He  stands  for  the  well-to-do  and  vulgar 
bourgeois.  He  was,  and  is  still,  very  fond  of 
fine  linen,  of  the  dress  of  the  upper  Parisian 
classes,  what  is  worn  on  the  boulevards  and  in 
the  Bois,  white  waistcoats,  since,  requiring  to 
be  changed  every  day,  they  denote  a  certain 
affluence  and  lack  of  care  for  economy ;  and 
what  the  true  dandy  forbids  himself,  namely, 


HIS  CHARACTERS  115 

jewellery,  which  is  synonymous  with  vain 
ostentation,  and  which  are  like  signs  put  out 
to  attract  attention  and  respect.  He  has  them 
all :  the  heavy,  gold  chain,  the  trinkets,  the 
diamond  scarf-pins,  the  golden  snuff-box  with 
the  locket.  He  carries  on  his  own  person  this 
small  fortune  which  lets  all  the  world  know 
that  he  is  the  owner  of  a  much  larger  one.  It 
is  done  a  little  for  people  to  know  about  it,  and 
still  more  for  himself  to  be  reminded  of  it. 
He  regards  his  trinkets  or  snuff-box  much  as 
he  would  a  looking-glass.  Everything  about 
him  says,  '  I  am  rich  and  always  afraid  of 
letting  go  opportunities  of  being  reminded  of 
it.'  Moreover,  though  abstemious  at  this 
time,  he  is  already  stout,  4  as  healthy  as  your 
eye,'  says  a  friend  of  Mme.  Vauquer,  '  a  man 
who  bears  his  years  wonderfully  well,  and  whom 
a  woman  may  still  find  very  agreable  ' ;  and 
again,  '  his  conspicuous  fleshy  calf  as  well  as 
his  long  flat  nose,  gave  a  hint  of  moral  qualities 
which  the  widow  was  loath  to  let  go,  and  this 
impression  was  strengthened  by  the  moon-like 
ingenuous  face  of  the  good  man.  Every  morn- 
ing the  barber  from  the  Polytechnic  School 
used  to  come  to  trim  and  powder  his  hair.' 
This  was  the  middle-class  bourgeois  under 


116  BALZAC 

Louis  Philippe,  who  aimed  at  being  of  the  upper 
classes  and  aped  their  ways. 

Now  let  us  see  Old  Goriot :  '  Three  years 
afterwards  Old  Goriot  appeared  one  day  with- 
out his  powder ;  an  exclamation  of  surprise 
slipped  from  his  landlady  on  seeing  the  colour 
of  his  hair  :  it  was  a  dirty  greenish  grey.  His 
physiognomy,  which  secret  griefs  had  insensibly 
saddened  day  by  day,  seemed  the  most  desolate 
of  all  those  that  lined  her  table.  .  .  .  When 
his  underclothing  was  worn  out,  he  bought 
calico  at  sevenpence  the  ell  to  replace  his  fine 
linen.  His  diamonds,  his  gold  snuff-box,  his 
jewels  disappeared  one  by  one.  He  had  left 
off  his  bright  blue  clothes  and  all  his  rich 
apparel  to  wear  summer  and  winter  alike  a 
frock-coat  of  coarse  brown  cloth,  a  suit  of  goat's 
hair,  and  grey  sheepskin  trousers.  He  grew 
gradually  thinner ;  his  calves  fell  in,  his  face 
swollen  with  a  good  middle-class  content, 
became  unduly  wrinkled,  his  forehead  furrowed, 
and  the  outlines  of  his  jaw  sharpened.  He 
no  longer  looked  like  himself.  The  honest 
manufacturer  of  vermicelli  who  at  sixty-two 
did  not  look  forty,  the  big  stout  tradesman 
brimming  over  with  nonsensical  banter,  whose 
sprightly  bearing  rejoiced  the  passers-by,  who 


HIS  CHARACTERS  117 

had  something  youthful  in  his  smile — this  man 
seemed  to  have  suddenly  become  a  dull  faded 
tottering  septuagenarian.  His  blue  eyes,  once 
so  vivacious,  assumed  lifeless  iron-grey  tints, 
they  had  grown  dim,  they  no  longer  watered, 
and  their  red  rims  seemed  to  weep  blood.  He 
was  an  object  of  horror  to  some,  of  pity  to 
others.  Young  medical  students,  noticing  the 
depression  of  his  lower  lip  and  measuring  the 
apex  of  his  facial  angle,  declared  him  affected 
with  idiocy,  after  having  worried  him  a  long 
time  without  getting  anything  out  of  him.  .  .  .' 
All  the  features  of  this  latter  portrait,  in 
direct  opposition  to  the  former,  aim  at  showing 
physiological  misery  as  effect  and  sign  of  its 
moral  counterpart.  Emaciation,  wrinkling  of 
the  forehead,  of  the  cheeks,  of  the  flesh  on  the 
jaws ;  face  turned  leathery ;  instead  of  the 
fleshy  and  plump  calf  which  implies  a  firm 
step,  the  tottering  gait  of  M.  Poiret.  There  is 
no  feature  directly  indicating  disease  properly 
so  called,  none  that  suggests  the  idea  of  a  deep 
moral  affection  gnawing  and  slowly  devastat- 
ing. The  last  word  is  nothing  but  the  exaggera- 
tion of  a  perfectly  accurate  bit  of  observation 
and  sums  up  the  whole  piece.  The  young 
students  declare  Goriot  affected  with  idiocy 


118  BALZAC 

because  he  really  is  so  concerning  one  of  those 
fixed  ideas  which,  though  not  leading  to  idiocy, 
have  all  the  appearance  of  doing  so. 

Note  well  the  first  word  :  Goriot  without  his 
powder.  This  before  all  the  rest ;  first  because 
suppressing  powder  was  one  of  the  earliest 
retrenchments,  one  of  the  earliest  sacrifices 
Goriot  imposed  on  himself;  then,  and  above 
all,  because  this  change  was  the  only  one  that 
was  abrupt  and  sudden,  the  only  one  which 
caught  the  attention  of  his  fellow-boarders 
among  all  those  others  which  had  gone  by 
almost  unnoticed,  so  that  they  now  said,  4  It 's 
sure  enough;  these  last  three  years  he  has 
certainly  altered  a  good  deal,  he  has  grown 
thinner,  and  lost  his  colour,  and  shrivelled  up,' 
and  so  on  to  the  same  effect. 

As  to  his  effect  on  those  who  surround  him — 
which  makes  the  portrait  complete,  for  one  is 
what  one  can  be,  but  to  the  reader  the  impres- 
sion made  by  a  being  on  those  about  him  is  a 
most  precious,  even  a  most  precise  piece  of 
information — as  to  his  effect  upon  the  people 
around  him,  it  reads  as  follows  :  '  He  had  fallen 
into  a  brooding  state  which  those  who  observed 
him  superficially  mistook  for  senile  sluggish- 
ness. Everybody  in  the  boarding-house  had 


HIS  CHARACTERS  119 

fixed  ideas  about  the  poor  old  man.  He  never 
had  either  wife  or  daughter.  Over-indulgence 
in  pleasure  had  made  a  snail  of  him,  an  anthro- 
pomorphous mollusc  worthy  of  being  entered 
among  the  cap-bearers,  as  one  of  the  museum 
attendants  used  to  say.  Poiret  was  an  eagle, 
a  gentleman  when  compared  with  Goriot. 
Poiret  spoke,  argued,  answered,  though  he 
meant  nothing  as  he  spoke,  argued,  or  answered, 
for  he  would  repeat  in  different  words  what  the 
others  had  been  saying  ;  still  he  took  part  in 
the  conversation ;  he  was  alive,  he  seemed  to 
be  sensitive ;  whilst  Old  Goriot — again  as  the 
museum  attendant  used  to  say — was  for  ever 
zero  by  the  thermometer.5 

In  one  word — and  to  make  use  of  the  pithy 
and  perfectly  apt  popular  phrase — Goriot  is 
absorbed.  Something  draws  him  inward  and 
forbids  all  expansion,  all  motion  outward,  how- 
ever slight  it  may  be.  He  is  no  longer  '  sen- 
sible '  of  external  influences ;  neither  does  he 
seem  to  be  alive.  He  is  beyond  genuine  and 
recognised  imbecility.  For  an  imbecile  is 
passive ;  when  one  strikes  him,  he  reverber- 
ates ;  when  one  speaks  to  him,  he  answers  back 
like  an  echo ;  he  is  passive  and  no  more. 
Goriot  is  not  even  passive ;  he  is  no  longer  in 


120  BALZAC 

contact  with  external  objects  ;  all  communica- 
tion between  the  world  and  himself  is,  as  it 
were,  cut  off.  Why  is  this  so  ?  The  boarders 
at  Vauquer's  answer  each  in  their  own  way; 
the  reader  wonders  about  it  most  anxiously, 
and  that  is  why  the  portrait  is  both  very 
curious  in  itself  and  extremely  clever  as  an 
introduction  to  the  novel  and  an  invitation  to 
read  it. 

After  Balzac  had  seen  his  character,  he  loved 
to  label  him  with  a  characteristic  name.  He 
was  very  keen  about  it,  thought  of  it  a  long 
time  beforehand,  consulting  sign-boards  on  the 
shops,  and  we  know  how  happy  he  felt  when 
he  found  precisely  on  a  sign- board  the  name  of 
Z.  Marcas,  and  when  he  at  once  imagined  a 
deformed,  suffering,  unhappy  being,  ill-starred 
in  all  his  undertakings.  '  "How!  "  said  Mme. 
de  Listonniere  to  him.  .  .  .  Here  the  historian 
would  be  well  within  his  rights  in  sketching  the 
portrait  of  this  lady  ;  but  he  thought  that  those 
who  were  ignorant  of  Sterne's  cognosmological 
system  could  hardly  pronounce  those  three 
words,  Mme.  de  Listonniere,  without  picturing 
the  woman  to  themselves  as  being  aristocratic, 
dignified,  and  tempering  the  rigour  of  piety 
with  elegant  old  monarchical  and  classical 


HIS  CHARACTERS  121 

habits  and  polite  manners ;  kind,  though  a 
little  stiff,  with  a  slightly  nasal  twang  ;  allow- 
ing herself  the  weakness  of  reading  la  Nouvelle 
Heloise  ;  fond  of  theatre-going  and  yet  doing 
her  hair  like  a  girl.'  How  much  in  three  words  ! 
What  fine  nonsensical  language  ! 

But,  seriously,  these  surnames  of  his  are 
nearly  always  well  chosen.  What  is  especi- 
ally admirable  is  the  combination  of  surname 
and  Christian  name  and  the  effect  which  both 
together  produce  on  the  reader :  Eugenie 
Grandet,  an  effect  of  a  tender  gentleness  and 
the  sensation  of  a  dull,  monotonous  life  ;  a 
pearl-grey  name ;  Vrsule  Mirouet,  the  same 
effect  with  something  a  shade  more  ecclesi- 
astical; Philippe  Brideau,  a  wonderful  name 
for  an  old  soldier,  and  Joseph  Brideau,  an 
excellent  name  for  a  sweet-tempered  artist,  so 
calm  and  homely  ;  Colonel  Chabert,  a  magnifi- 
cent name  for  a  leader  of  dragoons  ;  Baron 
Hulot,  an  admirable  name  for  an  officer  under 
the  first  Empire,  which  reminds  the  reader  ever 
and  again,  amidst  the  frightful  undermining  of 
his  character,  of  what  he  was  once,  and  conse- 
quently of  the  tragic  depth  of  his  degradation ; 
I  will  say  nothing  about  Gobseck,  so  character- 
istic as  to  tend  towards  caricature.  Is  not 


122  BALZAC 

Lucien  de  Rubempre  the  name  of  a  charming, 
graceful,  and  weak-kneed  fellow,  and  Eugene 
de  Rastignac  that  of  a  daring,  ardent,  resolute, 
masterful,  and  unscrupulous  one,  whose  victory 
is  assured  by  the  very  name  which  he  bears  ? 
What  of  the  duchesses  called  Manfrigueuse 
and  the  middle-class  courtesans  who  are  called 
Valerie  Marneffe  (a  name  that  to  me,  however, 
seems  more  befitting  a  procuress ;  still,  she  will 
turn  her  hand  to  that  later  on)  ?  What  of  the 
journalist  Lousteau  and  the  caricaturist  Bixiou, 
and  the  doctors  Bianchon  and  Crevel,  bursting 
with  vanity  and  self-importance  ?  I  find  none 
save  Mme.  de  Mortsauf  whose  name  seems 
inapt,  it  being  rather  that  of  a  haughty  great 
lady,  even  perhaps  of  a  courtesan,  rather  than 
that  of  a  tender-hearted,  pure,  querulous,  and 
broken-down  creature.  The  truth  is  that  it 
belongs  to  her  husband.  But  he  is  a  self- 
supposed  invalid,  and  the  name  suits  him  no 
better. 

But  such  misfits  are  rare.  As  a  rule  Balzac 
is  infallible  in  this  part  of  his  art,  which  is  by 
no  means  a  negligible  one.  George  Sand,  too, 
was  generally  very  happy  in  her  choice  of  sur- 
names. 

The  character  being  seen  and  named,  Balzac 


HIS  CHARACTERS  123 

busied  himself  with  his  dwelling-place,  being 
convinced  (and  rightly)  that  surroundings  have 
a  tremendous  influence  on  temperament,  and 
also  that  we  choose  our  surroundings  according 
to  our  temperament,  and  that  we  model  and 
adapt  our  homes  according  to  its  bent,  all  of 
which  furnishes  ample  reason  for  the  close  con- 
nection between  our  dwellings  and  ourselves. 
I  said  that  Balzac  rather  overworks  this  idea, 
and  that  he  often  describes  for  the  mere  sake 
of  doing  so,  with  an  artistic  passion,  poring 
over  a  country  or  a  Paris  house  as  devotedly 
as  an  archaeologist  might  do  over  a  figured 
monument  to  Eleusis.  I  said  that  to  my  mind 
he  sees  them  too  much,  he  is  too  strongly  and 
too  often  taken  up  with  them ;  but  still — and 
this  is  oftenest — it  is  in  order  to  explain  the 
man  and  make  us  understand  him  thoroughly 
that  he  minutely  describes  what,  continually 
surrounding  him,  moulds  him  and  is  moulded 
by  him  in  return,  modifies  and  is  modified  in 
a  certain  way. 

Take  the  miser's  house.  It  is  his  house  that 
Balzac  insists  on  showing  us  before  we  are 
introduced  to  the  miser  himself.  The  shell 
accounts  for  the  tortoise.  '  You  may  find  in 
certain  country  towns,  houses  the  mere  sight 


124  BALZAC 

of  which  inspires  you  with  a  melancholy  equal 
to  that  induced  by  the  most  sombre  cloisters, 
the  most  desolate  wastes,  or  the  saddest  ruins. 
Such  houses  may  shelter  at  once  the  silence  of 
a  cloister,  the  barrenness  of  a  wilderness,  and 
the  strewn  limbs  of  a  ruin  ;  life  and  movement 
are  so  still  inside  that  a  stranger  would  think 
they  were  tenantless  did  he  not  all  at  once  catch 
sight  of  the  pale  and  chilly  look  of  a  motion- 
less figure  whose  half-monastic  face  peeps  out 
over  the  window-sill  at  the  sound  of  unknown 
footsteps.  These  features  of  melancholy  actu- 
ally exist  in  the  physiognomy  of  a  dwelling 
situated  at  Saumur  at  the  top  of  the  street 
which  leads  uphill  to  the  castle  in  the  highest 
part  of  the  town.  This  street,  now  quite 
deserted,  stuffy  in  summer,  cold  in  winter, 
dark  in  some  places,  is  notable  for  the  reverber- 
ance  of  its  cobbled  pavement,  always  dry  and 
clean,  and  the  narrowness  of  its  winding  way, 
and  the  stillness  of  its  houses  belonging  to  the 
older  town  and  overlooking  the  ramparts.  .  .  . 
After  having  toiled  up  the  windings  of  this 
picturesque  roadway,  the  least  unevenness  of 
which  calls  up  memories  and  of  which  the 
general  impression  induces  a  kind  of  involun- 
tary reverie,  you  perceive  a  fairly  dark  recess 


HIS  CHARACTERS  125 

in  the  midst  of  which  is  hidden  the  door- 
way of  old  Grandet's  house.'  This  out-of- 
the-way  street,  this  house  set  back  from  the 
main  road  which  seems  to  be  hidden  from 
sight,  this  cloister-like,  tomb-like,  stern-looking 
house,  where  there  sometimes  appeared  at 
the  window  the  monastic  face  uneasy  at  the 
sound  of  unknown  footsteps  (so  much  has  he 
got  used  to  recognising  the  sound  of  customary 
ones),  is  the  marvellous  dwelling  of  everlasting 
suspicion,  and,  of  course,  of  avarice. 

The  house  of  the  wise  man  (which  he  did  not 
build,  scarcely  modified,  but  which  he  picked 
out,  so  giving  a  sign  of  his  turn  of  mind),  the 
house  of  a  not  at  all  eccentric  sage,  with  quite 
an  ordinary,  but  pure,  gentle,  and  sincere  heart  : 
4  The  Loing  meanders  through  the  town,  lined 
with  terraced  gardens  and  neat-looking  houses 
the  aspect  of  which  tempts  you  to  suppose  that 
happiness  must  dwell  there  rather  than  any- 
where else.  When  they  turned  from  the  High 
Street  into  the  Rue  des  Bourgeois,  Minoret- 
Levrault  pointed  out  the  property  of  M. 
Levrault,  the  rich  Parisian  iron-merchant  who, 
as  he  said,  had  just  allowed  himself  to  die  : 
"  Look  here,  uncle,  here  's  a  fine  house  for  sale  ; 
it  has  a  lovely  garden  by  the  river."  "  Let  us 


126  BALZAC 

go  in,"  said  the  doctor,  seeing  at  the  end  of  a 
small  paved  courtyard  a  house  squeezed  be- 
tween the  walls  of  two  neighbouring  houses 
concealed  by  clumps  of  trees  and  creepers. 
"  There  are  cellars,"  said  the  doctor,  going  up 
a  steep  flight  of  steps  which  was  ornamented 
with  white  and  blue  crockery  ware  in  which 
some  geraniums  were  blossoming.  Cut  across, 
as  most  country  houses  are,  by  a  passage  leading 
from  the  yard  on  to  the  garden,  the  house  had 
nothing  on  the  right  but  a  drawing-room 
lighted  by  four  windows,  two  of  them  looking 
out  on  to  the  yard  and  two  on  to  the  garden  ; 
but  Levrault-Levrault  had  appropriated  one 
of  them  as  an  entry  to  a  long  greenhouse  built 
up  with  bricks  which  led  from  the  drawing- 
room  to  the  river,  ending  there  in  an  ugly 
Chinese  summer-house.  "  Good !  With  a 
roof  put  over  that  greenhouse,  and  with  board- 
ing put  down,"  said  old  Minoret,  "  I  shall  be 
able  to  arrange  my  library  in  here,  and  make 
that  queer  piece  of  architecture  into  a  nice 
study."  On  the  other  side  of  the  passage 
looking  out  on  to  the  garden  was  a  dining-room 
decorated  in  imitation  black  lacquer  with 
green  and  gold  flowers,  and  separated  from 
the  kitchen  by  the  staircase.  A  small  pantry 


HIS  CHARACTERS  127 

had  been  let  into  the  back  of  the  staircase 
leading  to  the  kitchen,  the  iron-barred  windows 
of  which  looked  out  on  to  the  yard.  There 
were  two  rooms  on  the  first  floor  and  above 
them  some  quite  inhabitable  attics.  After 
having  made  a  rapid  survey  of  this  house 
covered  with  green  trellis-work  from  top  to 
bottom,  both  back  and  front,  and  ending  on 
the  river-side  in  a  wide  terrace  laden  with  delft 
vases  .  .  .' 

It  is  in  just  such  a  middle-class  house, 
commonplace,  but  comely  and  cheerful,  that 
you  can  fancy  Doctor  Minoret  playing  endless 
games  of  backgammon  with  the  parish  priest, 
and  the  retired  colonel,  and  his  niece  falling  in 
love  with  M.  de  Portenduin  on  seeing  him 
gracefully  shaving  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street. 

A  poor  doctor's  flat.  The  reception-room 
for  patients  was  meanly  furnished  with  the 
common-looking  mahogany  sofa,  trimmed  with 
yellow-flowered  Utrecht  velvet,  four  armchairs, 
six  chairs,  a  console,  and  a  tea-table.  .  .  . 
The  clock  for  ever  under  its  glass-globe  between 
two  Egyptian  candlesticks  was  shaped  like  a 
lyre.  You  wondered  how  the  curtains  hanging 
at  the  windows  had  been  able  to  hold  together 


128  BALZAC 

so  long ;  for  they  were  yellow  calico  painted 
with  red  roses,  from  the  factory  at  Jouy.  .  .  . 
The  other  room  served  as  dining-room.  The 
decent  penury  that  reigned  here  in  this  room 
that  was  deserted  for  half  the  day,  was  obvious 
as  soon  as  you  set  foot  in  it,  at  sight  of  the  small 
red  muslin  curtains  lining  the  window  which 
looked  out  on  to  the  yard.  The  cupboards 
obviously  hid  remains  of  mouldy  pies,  chipped 
plates,  everlasting  corks,  and  serviettes  dirty 
from  a  whole  week's  usage.' 

Having  seen,  named,  and  lodged  his  char- 
acters, and  given  them  their  proper  setting,  he 
endows  them  with  life.  How  ?  It  is  just  there 
that  criticism  stops  short,  almost  quite  at  a 
loss.  How  can  any  one  define  the  gift  of  a 
Homer,  an  ^Eschylus,  a  Sophocles,  a  Euripides 
(though  to  a  lesser  degree),  a  Shakespeare,  a 
Corneille,  a  Racine,  a  Moliere,  a  La  Bruyere 
now  and  then,  a  Goethe  at  times,  an  Augier 
and  a  Dumas  the  younger  at  times  again,  an 
Ibsen  often.  When  their  creations  are  not 
only  true,  accurate,  precise,  and  great,  but  just 
as  spirited  and  to  the  full  as  living  as  we  know 
that  our  neighbours  or  our  own  kindred  actu- 
ally are  ;  a  Ulysses,  an  Electra,  an  Antigone, 
an  Iphigenia,  an  Othello,  a  Pauline,  a  Phedre, 


HIS  CHARACTERS  129 

and  a  Joad,  a  Tartuffe,  a  Giton,  a  Werther, 
a  M.  Poirier,  a  Mme.  Guichard,  a  Nora,  and  a 
Borckmann  ?  No  one  knows ;  for  it  is  not 
the  secret  of  art,  it  is  that  of  physiological 
instinct  and  power  which  consists  in  transform- 
ing ourselves  into  another  being  and  leading 
inside  that  other  the  same  life  as  our  own  self 
does — following  the  same  passionate  impulses 
and  obeying  the  same  logic  which  overrules 
feelings  and  passions.  Now,  that  is  a  gift 
which  is  beyond  analysis. 

Massillon  used  to  say  :  4  Where  do  I  study 
the  passions  which  I  describe  ?  Why,  in  my 
own  self.'  Flaubert  said :  '  Who  is  Mme. 
Bovary  ?  She  is  myself.'  It  is  certain  that 
you  cannot  bestow  life ;  you  are  alive,  that  is 
all ;  and  when  a  character  of  your  creation 
has  life  it  is  yourself  who  have  endowed  him 
with  your  own.  But  how  can,  and  how  is  that 
done  in  fact  ?  That  is  just  what  the  life-giver 
himself  would  be  at  a  loss  to  explain,  and 
that  is  yet  another  reason  and  a  stronger  why 
it  is  futile  for  criticism  to  attempt  it. 

For  criticism,  at  the  most,  can  only  detect 
a  few  ways,  a  few  habits,  a  few  processes  which 
reveal  a  part  only  of  that  strange  work,  but 
which  are,  if  I  may  say  so,  but  outward  and 

i 


130  BALZAC 

superficial  as  regards  it,  and  such  as  when 
detected  do  not  reach  down  to  the  depths 
from  which  they  come. 

Such,  for  example,  is  the  striking  word  that, 
all  of  a  sudden,  flashes  a  full  light  on  the 
depths  of  a  character. 

When  Colonel  Chabert,  after  years  spent 
sunk  in  misery,  receives  two  louis  from  the 
solicitor,  his  first  word  is,  '  Now  at  last  I  shall 
be  able  to  smoke  cigars.' 

Some  one  says  to  Rubempre  :  '  If  you  keep 
on  being  eclectic  no  one  will  support  you,  either 
Liberal  or  Royalist.  You  must  choose ;  on 
which  side  will  you  stand  ?  '  '  Which  is  the 
stronger  ?  '  says  Rubempre  quite  bluntly,  so 
bluntly  in  fact  that  his  questioner  is  not  at  all 
astonished,  and  dreams  of  nothing  but  explain- 
ing to  him  which  is  the  stronger  side. 

Grandet  to  his  nephew :  '  Your  father  is 
dead.'  Desperate  cry  from  the  nephew 
Grandet :  ' .  .  .  But  that  's  nothing ;  he  went 
bankrupt  and  you  haven't  a  penny.' 

Mme.  Marneff  to  Crevel :  '  You  don't  love 
me  this  morning.'  '  Don't  I  though,  Valerie,' 
says  Crevel.  '  Why,  I  love  you  like  a  million  !  ' 

From  a  courtesan  :  '  Come  on  !  Let  us  be 
gay,  old  boy  !  Life  is  like  clothes.  When  they 


HIS  CHARACTERS  131 

are  dirty  we  brush  them  up,  when  they  get 
worn  through  we  mend  them ;  but  clothed 
we  remain  as  long  as  we  can.' 

With  fine  words  such  as  these  Balzac 
abounds,  and  we  must  acknowledge  that  they 
give  us  the  very  impress  of  living  truth.  Yet 
do  we  not  feel  that,  strictly  speaking,  logic 
alone  would  suffice  for  their  finding— that, 
strictly  speaking,  an  abstract  idea  might  utter 
them  just  as  well  ? 

Another  process,  or  rather  another  manner, 
for  an  author  who  has  succeeded  in  living 
inside  another  character,  is  to  give  that  person- 
age such  and  such  habits  of  body,  gesture, 
speech,  or  facial  appearance  as  recur  repeatedly 
in  the  same  outward  mannerisms  or  nearly  so, 
thus  marking  (the  only  stumbling-block  to  be 
avoided  being  monotony)  the  secret  connections 
which  bind  together  body  and  soul,  our  move- 
ments and  our  instincts,  our  behaviour  and  our 
ordinary  tasks,  our  familiar  gestures  and  our 
customary  thoughts.  And  to  do  so  is  to  give 
the  character  a  life  continually  in  concert,  in 
harmony  with  himself,  and  consequently  to 
render  him  continuously  in  keeping  with  like- 
lihood, and  his  behaviour  easily  predicable, 
so  that  he  resembles  the  people  whom  we 


132  BALZAC 

actually  see  alive  about  us.  Herein  Balzac 
excells.  He  sees  in  full  detail  both  the  habit 
and  the  habitat  which  derive  from  a  man's 
profession,  origin,  education,  relationships, 
and  his  fixed  or  predominating  ideas.  He 
knows  the  characteristic  obsession  or  kink 
which  a  man  acquires  little  by  little  in  his 
workshop,  his  office,  his  study,  or  his  shop,  and 
which  he  can  never  get  rid  of.  He  knows  the 
deeper  furrow  or— to  use  the  word  of  Sainte- 
Beuve — the  crack  which  the  fixed  and  pre- 
dominating idea  stamps  on  the  face,  and,  so 
to  say,  on  the  whole  person  of  the  man  pos- 
sessed by  it.  And  he  never  loses  sight  of  that 
crack,  that  furrow ;  it  is  ever  present  to  his 
mind  ;  he  brings  us  back  to  it  time  and  again, 
with  a  truly  wonderful  art  in  varying  its  ex- 
pression so  as  not  to  weary  us  by  its  recurrence, 
and  he  is  very  ingenious  in  repeating  what  is 
sometimes  necessary  without  ever  saying  over 
again  what  would  be  tiresome. 

This  art  of  recurrent  gesture  and  of  the 
concordance  of  all  gestures,  applies,  if  properly 
understood,  much  more  to  people  of  the  middle 
and  lower  classes  than  to  those  of  higher  class 
and  culture.  People  of  the  lower  and  middle 
classes  are,  in  a  way,  nearer  things,  and  seem 


HIS  CHARACTERS  133 

more  than  others  to  be  shaped  by  them.  The 
men  and  women  of  the  upper  classes,  too, 
certainly  bear  the  stamp  of  the  world  in  which 
they  move  and  of  the  series  of  phenomena  by 
which  they  are  bound,  but  modified  by  more 
numerous  influences,  yielding  to  more  various 
forms  of  pressure,  the  effects  of  more  complex 
causes,  they  elude  this  method  somewhat,  or 
would  only  be  amenable  to  it  were  it  more 
comprehensive  and  more  supple.  And  it  is 
quite  certain  that  Balzac  paints  men  who  are 
neighbours  of  and  closely  allied  to  things 
wonderfully  well  just  because  he  sets  about 
painting  them  much  in  the  same  way  and  with 
the  same  insight  that  he  bestows  on  the  descrip- 
tion of  things.  But  here  his  instinctive  method 
is  excellent,  and  they  are  his  own  property, 
his  game,  his  very  substance,  all  these  common 
middle-class  people :  tradesmen,  lawyers, 
students,  independent  people,  small  owners, 
county  law-clerks,  commercial  travellers, 
journalists,  smaller  artists  (Pierre  Grassou ; 
the  bigger  men  not  being  so  well  seen),  actors 
and  actresses,  half  boors,  half  bourgeois,  half 
aristocrats  ;  for  their  habitual  mannerisms  are 
almost  sufficient  to  characterise  them  and  to 
give  them  visible  substance. 


134  BALZAC 

Another  way  of  giving  life  to  a  character  is 
to  make  him  either  attractive  or  the  contrary. 
Those  whom  we  neither  like  nor  dislike  hardly 
strike  us  as  being  alive  ;  they  seem  to  be  life- 
less because  we  do  not  make  them  alive  by 
our  feelings  towards  them ;  they  seem  to  us, 
if  alive  at  all,  to  be  so  merely  in  a  very  hazy 
kind  of  way  because  we  do  not  live  in  them. 
So  true  is  this  that  even  inanimate  objects 
become  alive  for  us  when  we  love  them  and 
when  we  hate  them,  and  Lamartine's  lines 
are  quite  right : 

Inanimate  objects,  have  you  then  a  soul 
Which  clings  to  ours  and  makes  us  render  love  ? 

And  yet  this  too  would  sound  just  as  true  : 

Inanimate  objects,  have  you  then  a  soul 

Which  flouts  our  own  and  makes  us  render  hatred  ? 

That  inexhaustible  saying  of  Amiel,  '  A 
landscape  is  a  state  of  mind,'  implies  that 
scenery  is  at  one  time  sweetness,  kindness, 
cordiality,  serenity,  welcome ;  at  another 
horror,  hostility,  frenzy,  convulsion,  and  de- 
spair ;  and  such  objects,  according  to  circum- 
stances, we  like  or  hate ;  but  we  always,  and 
because  of  that,  think  of  them  as  living.  The 


HIS  CHARACTERS  135 

whole  of  antique  mythology  is  based  on  that, 
and  antique  mythology  is  eternal. 

However,  I  will  not  say  with  greater  reason, 
human  beings  are  only  alive  for  us  in  so  far 
as  we  either  love  or  hate  them  ;  and  as  for  the 
indifferent  ones  we  are  very  uncertain  as  to 
whether  they  be  alive  or  not.  An  excellent 
article  by  Brunetiere  on  the  '  attractive  char- 
acter '  might,  with  but  little  garbling,  be 
summed  up  as  follows  :  the  attractive  char- 
acter may  be  either  sympathetic  to  us,  or  the 
contrary,  provided  only  that  he  be  strongly 
one  or  the  other. 

Well,  no  one  better  than  Balzac  can  make  a 
human  being  either  minutely  attractive  or 
minutely  repulsive.  His  usual  hallucination 
serves  here :  just  as  he  believes  his  char- 
acters to  be  alive  and  real,  just  as  he  speaks 
about  them  as  though  they  were  real  and 
living  persons,  so  he  himself  either  loves  or 
detests  them  (just  as  he  loves  Gautier  and 
detests  Sainte-Beuve),  and  it  is  therefore  not 
difficult  for  him  to  render  the  one  very  attrac- 
tive and  the  other  very  odious,  and  conse- 
quently to  render  them  both  alive  for  the 
reader.  Therein  we  have  a  singular  contra- 
diction which  genius  solves  quite  uncon- 


136  BALZAC 

sciously.  The  man  of  genius  lives  inside  his 
characters,  otherwise  he  could  not  make  them 
living,  and  moreover,  so  well  does  he  material- 
ise these  different '  selves  '  that  he  detests  some 
and  loves  others.  He  resembles  Nature,  which 
is  a  wolf  inside  a  wolf,  a  lamb  inside  a  lamb, 
a  stag  inside  a  stag ;  but,  in  addition,  if  we 
suppose  Nature  to  hate  the  wolf  and  to  feel 
very  kindly  towards  the  lamb,  we  have  then 
the  position  of  the  great  artist. 

We  always  feel  Balzac's  hatred  for  journal- 
ists, fortune  hunters,  quacks,  business  sharpers, 
and  misers  which  helps  him  to  make  them  live 
intensely,  for  he  gathers  together  in  them,  with 
a  sort  of  wrath,  as  of  electric  waves,  all  the 
power  of  evil  consistent  with  their  characters 
which  he  can  possibly  imagine. 

And  we  always  feel  Balzac's  love  for  the 
country  doctor,  the  village  priest,  the  honest 
pious  woman,  the  young  girl  in  love,  for  artists, 
disinterested  men  of  letters  and  idealists,  great 
soldiers  of  the  Empire ;  and  all  that  helps  him 
to  give  them  the  right  tone,  colouring,  relief,  and 
depth. 

Attractive  and  repulsive  characters  are  alike 
powerfully  alive  for  a  good  many  reasons,  but 
particularly  in  proportion  to  the  sympathy  or 


HIS  CHARACTERS  137 

the  antipathy  the  author  bears  them.  I  am 
quite  sure  that  the  friend  of  Shakespeare  is 
Hamlet,  and  that  his  enemy  is  lago,  and  that 
he  passionately  (though  with  different  passions) 
searched  and  dived  deep  into  both,  so  as  to 
make  them  athrob  both  inwardly  and  out- 
wardly with  complete  life. 

But  still  the  revealing  word,  the  persistent 
mannerism  and  according  behaviour,  even 
sympathy  or  antipathy  giving  to  the  char- 
acter something  outstanding  and  vehement 
which  sets  him  off  most  powerfully — all  that 
is  but  the  process  or  half -process,  the  apparent 
work  of  the  artist  which  can  be  detected 
because  of  its  appearance,  and  we  feel  that  it 
is  neither  the  heart  of  the  secret  nor  the  very 
gift.  The  gift  itself  of  endowing  with  life 
is  a  faculty  in  the  artist  which  remains  mysteri- 
ous and  irreducible  by  any  analysis. 

Let  us  see  at  least  these  characters  which 
he  created  because  he  was  a  creator,  how  he 
leads  them  through  their  lives,  what  kind  of 
evolution  he  makes  them  pass  through,  and  in 
what  sort  of  progression  he  shows  them  to  us. 

The  way  of  going  to  work  here  is  more  palp- 
able and  the  artistic  method  more  obvious. 
His  characters  are  oftenest  quite  simple ;  they 


138  BALZAC 

have  not  that  complexity  of  which  we  arc-  so 
fond  because  of  its  likeness  to  life,  and  because 
we  get  so  much  pleasure  from  threading 
labyrinths,  a  delight  which  Shakespeare  evi- 
dently shared,  which  Moliere  knew  and  even 
insisted  on,  which  Tolstoi  and  Ibsen  endea- 
voured, perhaps  unwisely,  to  give  their 
heroes.  You  do  not  often  meet  with  a  complex 
character  in  Balzac.  You  have  him  in  Ras- 
tignac  junior,  in  Rubempre,  in  Colonel  Chabert, 
who  is  violent,  tenacious,  and  weak,  and  in  a 
few  others  who,  as  a  rule,  are  only  secondary 
characters.  Generally  speaking  the  complex 
character  is  unknown  to  Balzac ;  it  is  foreign 
to  his  art,  and  even  to  that  very  art  of  his  of 
which  we  have  just  been  treating,  and  of  which 
we  shall  complete  the  definition.  And  in  that 
much  Balzac  is  classical.  The  classical  man 
loves  clearness  before  all  things,  and  com- 
plexity is  not  always  very  clear ;  we  feel  it 
has  truth  in  it,  and  still  we  hesitate  over  the 
degree  of  its  truth  and  over  the  proportions 
in  which  it  is  true.  The  classic  mind  is  always 
afraid  that  complexity  may  be  no  more  than 
mere  incoherence  flaunting  under  another 
name. 

And  indeed  it  is  not  altogether  wrong,  for 


HIS  CHARACTERS  139 

if  those  be  right  who  say  that  Nature  is 
complex,  those  too  are  right  who  say  that 
she  is  likewise  simple,  who  say  that  a  man  has 
several  passions  indeed,  but  that  one  of  them 
predominates,  one  which  is  master  ending  at 
last,  and  that  soon  enough,  in  overruling  his 
whole  character. 

Is  there  such  a  man  as  the  miser,  the  prodigal, 
the  libertine,  the  generous  man  ?  ask  the  parti- 
sans of  the  complex.  Are  such  indeed  any- 
thing but  pure  abstractions  ?  And  must  art, 
that  follower  of  Nature,  proceed  by  abstrac- 
tions ?  '  O ! '  answer  the  partisans  of  the 
simple,  *  it  is  true  that  there  is  not  perhaps  one 
single  miser  who  is  only  a  miser ;  but,  speaking 
generally,  a  miser  whatever  he  be,  is  that  to 
such  a  degree,  that  all  the  veins  of  his  other 
passions  have  been  sucked  dry  by  the  main 
duct,  so  that  it  needs  but  a  very  slight  modifica- 
tion to  introduce  him  to  us  as  an  out-and-out 
miser ;  it  merely  means  the  avoidance  of 
trivial  and  unilluminating  detail.  The  ruling 
passion  is  at  first  a  large  part  of  a  man,  then 
nearly  all  the  man,  and  finishes  by  domin- 
ating the  whole  man.  Thus  it  is  right  in  de- 
scription (e.g.  La  Bruyere)  to  depict  only  that 
one  passion  when  making  the  portrait  of  a 


140  BALZAC 

man,  since  the  whole  man  is  referable  to  it ; 
and  in  narrative  it  is  right  to  show  that  passion, 
first  when  it  begins  to  sway,  then  when  it 
becomes  overbearing,  and  finally  when  it 
predominates  the  whole  mind.  Now,  we  shall 
find  that  this  is  just  how  Balzac  went  to  work. 

In  that  he  is  of  the  great  classical  school 
which  derives  from  Homer,  through  -ZEschylus, 
Sophocles,  Euripides,  Shakespeare  even,  Cor- 
neille  and  Racine  and  Moliere  down  to  Balzac 
himself. 

So  much  is  this  so  that  it  is  his  turn  of  mind, 
his  deliberate  choice  and  his  system.  Sainte- 
Beuve  affirms  that  4  Balzac  did  not  admit  that 
Pascal  had  any  right  to  ask  great  men's  souls 
the  proper  poise  and  equal  exercise  of  opposing 
virtues,  or  of  extreme  and  contrasting  qualities 
of  mind.'  Whereupon  Sainte-Beuve  gets 
rather  angry.  Now  is  it  not,  in  truth,  Balzac 
who,  first  and  last,  and  above  all  from  the 
standpoint  of  literary  art,  is  in  the  right  ? 
What  does  Pascal  say  ?  4 1  do  not  look  on 
the  excess  of  a  virtue  as  being  of  much  worth 
unless  I  find  at  the  same  time  the  excess  of  its 
contrary,  as  in  Epaminondas,  who  was  both 
valorous  and  kind  ;  for  otherwise  it  is  an  abase- 
ment rather  than  an  uplifting.  Greatness  is 


HIS  CHARACTERS  141 

not  shown  by  standing  near  one  extreme,  but 
rather  by  touching  both  at  once  and  fulfilling 
all  that  lies  between  them.  It  may  be  that 
this  is  only  a  sudden  movement  from  one 
extreme  to  the  other  and  that  greatness  only 
exists  in  one  place  at  a  time,  like  a  brand  [when 
it  is  moved  to  and  fro].  Be  it  so  ;  but  that  at 
least  shows  the  nimbleness  of  the  soul,  if  not 
its  scope.' 

Of  what  is  Pascal  thinking  ?  Not  of  what  is, 
but  rather  of  what  ought  to  be.  He  does  not 
(morally  speaking)  admire  beings  who  are 
extreme  and  incomplete,  nor  does  he  admire 
— in  Bossuet's  phrase — '  inhuman  heroes J ;  he 
does  not  admire  an  Ajax,  an  Alexander,  nor 
perhaps  a  Caesar ;  he  admires  (morally  speak- 
ing) men  who  have  contrary  and  apparently 
irreconcilable  qualities,  those  who  cover,  as  it 
were,  the  whole  span  of  human  feeling,  and  what 
he  needs  is  an  Epaminondas,  a  Marcus  Aurelius, 
or  a  Saint  Louis. 

Morally  speaking,  he  is  quite  right ;  but  does 
he  say  that  these  great  men  are  humanly  true  ? 
He  knows  perfectly  well  that  they  are  extra- 
ordinary exceptions,  and  just  for  that  reason 
he  admires  them  so  much. 

So  much  as  to  truth. 


142  BALZAC 

As  for  what  concerns  art,  he  does  not  at  all 
admire  them  as  an  artist,  but  as  a  moralist  and 
a  virtuous  man.  Had  any  one  asked  him 
whether  these  personages  were  likely  to  be 
met  with,  even  though  they  were  true,  he  would 
no  doubt  have  answered  '  No.'  Had  any  one 
asked  him  whether  they  were  artistic,  he  would 
have  said  '  Yes ' ;  for  everything  is  artistic, 
but  they  are  not  so  according  to  the  ordinary 
proceedings  of  art,  it  being  an  imitation  of 
Nature,  and  Nature  being  '  weak  and  limited ' 
and  humanity  composed  of  beings  who  fail 
exactly  in  '  spanning  extremes,'  and  who 
comprise  neither  qualities  nor  their  contrast- 
ing defects,  4  genuine  good '  being  no  more 
within  us  than  '  genuine  truth,'  since  men 
4  have  but  truth  and  good  in  a  mingled  measure 
along  with  evil  and  falsehood.' 

Hence  it  is  not  because  of  their  being  true, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  because  of  their  being 
exceptional  that  Pascal  admires  those  men 
who  4  span  the  extremes  ' ;  and  it  is  not  from 
the  standpoint  of  aesthetics  but  rather  of  ethics 
that  he  admires  them ;  and  the  man  who 
prides  himself  on  his  painting  of  humanity, 
must  in  nowise  be  anxious  or  preoccupied  about 
Pascal's  dictum.  It  does  not  in  the  least  con- 


HIS  CHARACTERS  143 

cern  him  whether  he  consider  it  from  the 
point  of  view  of  truth  or  of  art.  Possibly 
some  one  quoted  the  phrase  to  Balzac,  and 
immediately  he — thinking  as  an  artist  (for  how 
should  he  have  thought  otherwise  ?) — mistook 
it  for  an  artistic  precept,  and  so  at  once  replied 
and  not  without  reason  :  '  It  is  wrong  !  Men 
are  not  at  all  like  that,  and  I  must  and  will 
draw  men  as  I  find  them.  As  for  those  who, 
by  a  fabulous  freak,  happen  to  be  so  [and 
Pascal  himself  admits  that  it  is  perhaps  an 
illusion],  or  might  be  so,  they  would  not  be 
subject-matter  for  art,  for  they  would  be  per- 
fection ;  they  would  be  God  Himself,  and  per- 
fection cannot  be  drawn,  and  God  is  beyond 
the  utmost  skill  of  any  artist,  even  supposing 
any  one  should  attempt  His  likeness.  Your 
Pascal  does  not  know  what  he  is  talking  about.' 

Perhaps  he  would  have  understood  nothing 
whatever  had  he  been  treating  of  art ;  but  he 
never  considered  it  from  that  point  of  view. 

We  see  then  that  Balzac,  following  the 
example  of  all  the  classics,  deliberately  turned 
a  cold  shoulder  on  complex  characters.  The 
exclusiveness,  it  must  be  admitted,  implies 
a  few  shortcomings  from  which  Balzac  was 
hardly  free,  and  great  as  was  his  genius,  it 


144  BALZAC 

could  do  no  more  than  succeed  in  veiling 
them.  First  he  forbade  himself,  with  his 
philosophy  of  the  passions,  the  drawing  of 
any  save  the  generality  of  men.  A  passion, 
to  fill  a  man  completely,  must  be  very  great 
indeed.  We  may  admit  the  likelihood  of  a 
man's  being  wholly  ambitious,  for  ambition  is 
a  very  tyrannical  passion,  and  there  are  men 
indeed  who  at  least  seem  to  be,  from  top  to 
toe,  simply  a  mass  of  ambition.  And  it  is 
very  easy  indeed  to  understand — though  it 
be  quite  true  that  such  and  such  a  man  is 
merely  an  animated  craze  for  tulips  or  birds  or 
even  the  collecting  of  buttons — that  a  lesser 
passion  or  hobby,  however  deeply  you  may 
study  it,  will  never  convey  the  impression  of 
a  whole  man.  And  so  Balzac  is  obliged  to 
restrict  himself  almost  always  to  the  draw- 
ing of  great  characters,  as  they  were  called  in 
the  seventeenth  century,  universal  types  of 
humanity  :  the  good  liver,  the  ambitious  man, 
the  miser,  the  dupe  of  his  own  vanity,  the  en- 
vious man  or  woman.  He  is  Moliere  over 
again,  as  he  has  a  perfect  right  to  be.  General 
types  are  never  worn  out,  for  they  change  their 
aspect  and  even  their  turn  of  mind,  if  not  their 
whole  constitution,  from  one  generation  to 


HIS  CHARACTERS  145 

another.  Tartuffe  may  be  written  over  again 
every  half -century  (the  best  proof  of  it  being 
Balzac's  own  repetition  of  VAvare),  on  con- 
dition that  the  author  has  genius  ;  and  Balzac 
in  creating  Grandet  showed  well  enough  that 
he  had  it. 

And  still  we  must  acknowledge  that  we 
nowadays,  after  so  many  general  portraits, 
rather  like  to  study  private  character,  just  as 
after  so  many  histories  we  have  taken  a  liking 
for  memoirs,  the  study  of  rather  curious  and 
unusual  people,  of  complex  temperaments, 
probed  and  analysed  in  their  fine  shades,  their 
half-shades,  even  down  to  their  apparent 
contradictions.  Often  in  Balzac  the  absence 
of  a  Carmen,  an  Adolphe,  or  merely  a  Lucienne 
(Confession  of  a  Young  Woman)  is  to  be  felt. 
We  often  think,  for  instance,  of  those  English 
novels  in  which  the  ridiculous  characters  are 
singularly  attractive,  though  we  know  quite 
well  why  they  are  at  once  both  ridiculous  and 
attractive,  why  we  love  them  and  yet  laugh 
at  them,  and  why  in  quite  unexpected  fashion 
the  SaKpvoev  yeXacracra  fits  them  so  perfectly. 
M.  Albert  Guinon  has  well  said  :  4  They  make 
work  easy  for  the  playwrights  (and  novel- 
writers  too)  who  draw  simple  characters. 


146  BALZAC 

Their  higher  merit  consists  in  representing  in 
a  simple  manner  characters  who  are  in  reality 
by  no  means  so.' 

What  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  pleasure  we 
derive  from  complex  characters  is  our  liking 
for  the  mysterious.  There  is  no  mystery 
whatever  in  Balzac's  work.  We  feel  rather 
too  surely  that  we  are  going  straight  ahead. 
We  feel  rather  too  surely  that,  once  the  under- 
lying motives  of  his  novel  are  known,  we  could 
construct  it  ourselves.  He  does  it  so  much 
better  than  we  could,  that  is  all. 

But  though  that  is  a  good  way  of  explaining 
things  (and  it  is  merely  as  an  explanation  that 
I  use  it),  let  us  not  take  undue  advantage  of 
the  critical  method  which  consists  of  drawing 
hard  and  fast  lines,  and  asking  of  an  author 
the  kind  of  talent  to  which  he  cannot  lay 
claim.  Balzac  only  cared  about  simple  char- 
acters and  looked  on  complex  ones  as  untrue. 
Let  us  limit  ourselves  to  that  statement. 

And  as  to  these  simple  characters,  we  must 
ask  how  he  led  them  through  their  lives,  how 
(if  modern  terminology  be  preferred)  did  he 
make  them  evolve  ?  Always  in  a  straight- 
ahead  fashion,  without  any  retrogression  or 
roundabout  turning.  He  looks  on  every  one 


HIS  CHARACTERS  147 

as  being  continually  driven  by  a  single  ruling 
passion  which  is,  as  it  were,  always  at  high 
pressure,  and  increases  in  impetus  with  the 
lapse  of  time.  Do  you  remember  those  heroes 
of  George  Sand  who  become  modified,  their 
minds  insensibly  altering  as  the  narrative 
proceeds,  who  on  page  250  are  no  longer  what 
they  were  on  page  75,  whom  you  always  think 
of  labelling  with  that  tag  from  Plautus, 
Naturam  vortit  Eudio,  and  who,  thanks  to  the 
supple  talent  of  their  author,  seem  nonetheless 
quite  true  to  life  ?  Picture  to  your  mind  the 
exact  contrary  or  the  excessive  contrary,  and 
you  have  Balzac's  usual  way  of  going  to  work. 
It  must  have  been  he  who  gave  Taine  the 
idea  of  his  famous  axiom  :  4  Man  is  a  walk- 
ing theorem.'  A  man  to  Balzac  stands  for  a 
passion  served  by  intelligence  and  organs  and 
thwarted  by  circumstances ;  nothing  more 
than  that,  unless  it  be  that  it  increases  and 
gathers  strength  as  time  goes  on,  reacting 
against  all  obstacles  or  hindrances,  and  vires 
acquirit  eundo. 

He  set  forth  in  a  very  original  and  explicit 
way  the  whole  theory  of  this  way  of  looking 
at  things  in  one  of  Vautrin's  conversations  : 
4  Those  people  put  on  an  idea  and  will  not 


148  BALZAC 

leave  go.  [The  style  is  Vautrin's ;  he  is  not 
bound,  as  was  Gautier,  to  use  only  coherent 
metaphors.]  They  are  athirst  only  for  one 
special  water  drawn  up  from  a  special  well, 
and  it  is  so  often  stagnant ;  but,  for  a  drink 
from  it,  they  would  barter  away  their  wives 
and  children,  nay  their  very  souls,  to  the  devil. 
For  some  the  well  is  gambling  or  the  Stock 
Exchange,  or  collecting  pictures  or  insects  or 
music ;  for  others  it  is  a  woman  who  knows 
how  to  cook  sweetmeats,  and  one  who  doesn't 
care  a  fig  for  them,  or  uses  them  ill.  .  .  .  Well, 
these  funny  fellows  never  grow  weary,  and 
would  take  their  last  blanket  to  the  pawnshop 
so  that  she  might  have  their  last  half-crown. 
Old  Goriot  is  like  that.  .  .  .' 

Old  Goriot  is  like  that,  and  so  are  nearly  the 
whole  of  Balzac's  characters.  They  all  have 
a  passion  which  is  not  only  dominant,  but  in 
their  very  constitution.  Crevel's  is  vanity ; 
Rastignac's  (from  a  certain  moment)  is  am- 
bition ;  Baron  Hulot's  is  luxury ;  Cousin 
Bette's  (though  with  her  it  is  rather  complex, 
for  she  is  capable  of  an  old  maid's  love  for  a 
blond  youth)  is  envy ;  Grandet's  is  avarice ; 
Goriot' s  is  paternal  love  ;  Mme.  Hulot's  is 
conjugal  love  which  will  never  tire,  which  will 


HIS  CHARACTERS  149 

kill  her  without  ever  having  given  way,  or 
been  driven  to  despair  by  the  direst  ill-treat- 
ment and  ingratitude,  and  Mme.  Hulot  is  to 
her  husband  what  Goriot  is  to  his  daughters ; 
Philippe  Brideau's  is  the  instinct  of  an  un- 
scrupulous plunderer,  the  huge  greed  of  a 
Verres.1 

The  advantages  of  this  way  of  looking  on 
characters  are  obvious.  The  chief  advantage 
which  serves  to  bring  out  real  beauties,  dazzling 
beauties,  is  the  fact  that  the  character  so 
depicted  stands  out  in  striking  relief.  He  has 
no  shade ;  his  brilliance  is  blinding.  He 
remains  for  ever  in  the  mind.  George  Sand's 
novels  are  delightful  to  read,  but  hazy  in 
remembrance,  except  a  few  (Mauprat,  Mont- 
Leveche,  Petite  Fadette,  Mare  au  Diabk).  With 
Balzac  it  is  just  the  other  way  about ;  I  often 
find  Balzac  hard  to  read,  but  I  now  actually 
see  Goriot  as  though  he  were  one  of  my  friends, 
and  much  more  clearly,  for  none  of  them  has 
a  character  of  such  bare  simplicity. 

Another  attraction  is  a  certain  impression 
of  strength  which  we  get  from  characters  built 
up  in  this  way.  We  instinctively  love  strength, 
and  passion  thus  presented  is,  as  it  were,  an 

1  The  Roman  proconsul  against  whom  Cicero  declaimed. — TR. 


150  BALZAC 

element  in  Nature,  a  huge  mass  of  waters  or 
a  fiery  furnace  which  stretches  out,  increases, 
expands,  overflows,  rushes,  burns  down  and 
devours  all ;  unconquerable  and  unavoidable, 
with  an  incalculable  show  of  magnificent  energy 
which  we  regard  with  dread.  It  is  a  very  great 
enjoyment,  a  sort  of  dramatic  enjoyment,  one 
of  the  mainsprings  of  drama  being  terror. 

Stendhal  was  in  ecstasies  before  a  crime, 
and,  calling  energy  the  inability  of  a  man  to 
resist  his  passion,  would  exclaim  on  beholding 
a  murderer  :  '  What  energy  !  There  are  still 
men  who  have  energy.'  We  are  not  all  quite 
so  silly  as  Stendhal ;  but  still  there  is  a  shade 
of  Stendhal  in  us  all,  and,  if  we  neither  admire 
nor  worship  the  criminal  (and  herein  lies  the 
difference),  and  if  we  simply  call  him  the  im- 
pulsive, nevertheless  when  it  is  prolonged, 
tenacious,  and  '  of  a  raging  steadiness,'  as 
Saint-Simon  puts  it,  we  admire  his  passion. 
In  what  way  ?  As  a  strange  and  startling 
force  of  nature,  just  as  the  pagans  when  they 
worshipped  a  wicked  god  with  a  kind  of 
religious  tremor  and  holy  horror.  And  yet 
again  why  ?  Because  we  know  or  we  feel 
that  it  is  these  active  forces  which  created 
society,  and  that  these  passionate  forces  when 


HIS  CHARACTERS  151 

they  are  beneficent  have  most  beautiful,  most 
excellent,  and  most  salutary  effects,  and  for 
that  reason  we  admire  a  great  passion  what- 
ever it  may  be  as  a  cause,  when  as  a  cause  it 
produces  bad  effects  instead  of  good  ones,  since 
it  remains  in  any  case  a  cause,  which  is  to  say 
a  god. 

Balzac,  be  it  through  Hulot,  Grandet,  or  the 
country  doctor,  produces  just  such  an  impres- 
sion on  the  mind. 

Given  that  force,  Balzac  says  to  it :  t  Go 
forth  !  '  and  forth  it  goes  straight  ahead,  in- 
creasing its  power  and  gathering  momentum. 
In  that  again  he  is  classical  in  the  same  way 
as  the  dramatic  poets  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, except  that  he  is  much  more  so,  simplify- 
ing to  the  extreme,  for  he  would  have  admitted 
neither  the  clemency  of  August  nor  the  hesita- 
tions of  Nero,  and  would  not  have  made  a  lover 
of  Harpagon  ;  for  he  conceives  all  his  char- 
acters in  the  mould  of  the  younger  Horace,  of 
Narcissus,  or  Tartuffe ;  whilst  truth,  true 
realism  on  the  contrary,  would  consist  rather 
in  never  admitting  that  a  man  should  hold  only 
a  single  passion  incorporate  in  him,  and  goading 
him  straight  on,  it  being  rather  haphazard, 
and  oftentimes  a  see-saw  between  opposing 


152  BALZAC 

passions,  each  one  of  which  requires  describing 
according  to  its  relative  worth — and  that,  I 
own,  is  none  too  easy. 

Notice  that  his  own  manner  is  not  over  easy 
either,  and  that,  in  order  to  paint  things  thus, 
he  must  have  double  intensity  of  observation 
and  double  power  of  imagination.  Luckily 
he  had  both  to  the  full.  If  his  men  are  not 
beings  whom  we  can  '  see  all  round,'  they  have 
at  least  so  penetrating  a  light  cast  on  them 
that  on  that  side  of  their  personality  which  is 
shown  to  us  we  see  every  detail  with  miraculous 
clearness.  His  observation  is  so  exact  and  so 
powerful  that  we  do  not  need  to  see  the  whole 
man  in  order  to  get  a  picture  which  seems 
complete,  so  rich  is  it.  His  imagination  alike 
follows  the  straight  line  traced  on  his  plan 
without  ever  swerving,  though  we  could  almost 
wish  that  it  would  do  so ;  but  it  again  is  so 
powerful  that  it  needs  no  freedom.  For  ever 
working  on  the  same  trait  of  character,  the 
same  passion,  instinct,  or  craze,  it  will  yet  always 
find  new  words  and  new  deeds  which  will 
express  more  and  more  strongly  and  strikingly 
that  single  bent.  You  enjoy  it  even  while  you 
regard  it  critically.  You  say :  '  It  is  only 
half  the  book ;  the  passion  he  describes  is 


HIS  CHARACTERS  153 

already  altogether  known  to  me,  and  I  am  con- 
fident that  this  character  will  go  unswervingly 
onward  to  the  very  end ;  what  new  traits  of 
its  energy  can  he  possibly  find  ? '  And  he 
always  finds  them,  and  forces  you  into  shouts 
of  surprise  and  admiration. 

He  is  like  a  man  who  stakes  all  again  and 
again,  and  wins  every  time.  There  is  Philippe 
Brideau  who  robs  his  aunt  and  brother,  who 
despoils  his  mother,  stretches  his  inevitable 
hands  over  a  legacy  ever  so  well  guarded,  and 
then  lays  his  claws  deep  on  to  the  State  treasury, 
rips  open  its  hoard  like  a  beast  of  prey,  which 
seems  to  grow  bigger,  its  spread  of  wing  ever 
widening,  its  claws  ever  sharper  and  more 
penetrating. 

There  is  Grandet  who  terrorises  his  servant, 
his  wife,  and  his  daughter,  alarms  and  sets 
nearly  all  his  small  town  quaking  when,  find- 
ing himself  confronted  by  a  passion  as  strong 
as  his  own,  the  love  of  his  daughter  for  her 
cousin,  from  a  tyrannical  father  he  becomes 
an  unnatural  one,  locks  up  and  imprisons  his 
daughter,  kills  his  wife  with  grief,  and  sows 
round  him,  all  for  the  sake  of  money,  misery, 
sorrow  and  death.  Gold  here  stands  for  a 
furious  divinity  which  has  its  agent  in  a  man 


154  BALZAC 

through  whom  it  strikes  all  that  is  around 
him  with  ever-increasing,  hastening,  and  over- 
whelming blows.  It  is  Plutus  clinging  body 
and  soul  to  his  prey. 

There  is  Goriot  consumed  by  his  love  for  his 
daughters  as  if  by  a  hopeless  and  increasingly 
virulent  disease,  still  a  little  in  love  with  him- 
self at  the  beginning,  then  forgetting  himself 
gradually  until  he  reaches  to  the  self-abnega- 
tion of  the  fakir,  depriving  himself  of  every- 
thing for  them,  disgracing  himself  for  them, 
envying  and  loving  their  lovers,  begging,  be- 
seeching a  look  from  them,  '  some  shameful 
little  enjoyment,'  or  the  mere  favour  of  peep- 
ing at  them  ;  thus  falling  lower  and  lower 
into  the  uttermost  social,  moral,  and 
physical  misery,  like  a  lover  for  his  mis- 
tress, like  a  gambler  over  his  cards,  like  an 
ambitious  man  in  his  old  age  for  a  seat  on 
the  parish  council,  like  a  worn-out  man  of 
letters  still  begging  the  favour  of  appear- 
ing in  print  in  a  sub-prefecture  newspaper ; — 
it  has  been  very  truly  observed  that  the 
very  best  and  most  beautiful  passions  are 
susceptible  from  their  excess,  or  rather  from 
lack  of  their  inhibition,  of  degenerating  into 
baleful,  mad,  and  shameful  ones,  for  every 


HIS  CHARACTERS  155 

passion,  whatever  it  may  be,  is  an  incipient 
madness. 

There  is  Baron  Hulot  who,  for  the  sake  of 
women,  ruins  first  his  wife  and  then  his 
daughter,  launches  into  shady  speculations, 
becomes  a  robber,  is  destitute,  is  called  '  Jean 
Foutre '  by  his  companions  in  arms,  becomes 
the  debtor  of  a  courtesan,  goes  into  hiding, 
goes  under  an  alias,  turns  public  scrivener, 
takes  for  mistress  a  little  faubourg  girl,  or 
rather  a  young  savage  of  fifteen ;  who,  when 
his  wife  comes  to  fetch  him,  asks,  '  Shall  I 
bring  the  girl  too  ?  '  and  at  last  goes  courting 
a  hideous  kitchenmaid,  and  says,  c  Should 
my  wife  die,  you  might  become  a  baroness,' 
which  remark,  overheard  by  the  Baroness,  ends 
in  killing  her,  just  as  Grandet's  avarice  killed 
his  wife. 

The  fatality  of  passion,  as  in  Racine  and  in 
the  Greeks — for  their  divine  fatality  is  but  a 
symbol  that  conceals  the  fatality  of  human 
crimes — the  fatality  of  passions  leading  men 
along  a  sunken,  narrow,  straight  and  ever 
steeper  way,  through  sorrow  and  shame,  on  to 
folly  and  death,  such  is  the  awful  and  sinister 
soul  of  Balzac's  work. 

At  times  he  happened  on  something  else, 


156  BALZAC 

and  it  is  this  that,  granting  that  passion  as  a 
rule  drives  you  on  to  madness,  it  may  also 
happen  to  give  you  genius.  You  must,  of 
course,  have  it  to  start  with ;  yes,  always  on 
condition  that  you  have  a  little  of  it,  were  you 
inept  .  .  .  but  passion  transfigures  ever  so 
slight  a  talent  into  a  kind  of  genius.  The 
craving  for  gold  taught  Grandet  his  genius  for 
business,  just  as  the  hunter's  passion  taught 
him  skill  in  hunting.  Grandet  is  like  a  general 
who  throws  a  quick  glance  over  the  chessboard 
of  business  dealing,  foresees  everything,  has 
the  vigilance,  the  inspiration,  the  cleverness 
that  leaves  nothing  to  chance  that  might  be 
taken  from  him  by  reckoning  or  foresight ;  he 
has  the  loftiness  of  deliberation,  the  over- 
whelming rapidity  of  decision  of  a  great 
general  on  the  chessboard  of  the  field  of  battle. 
Balzac,  whose  strong  point  was  not  modesty, 
used  to  say  :  '  Moliere  made  a  miser,  but  I 
have  made  avarice.'  I  would  venture  to  say 
quite  pleasantly  in  the  words  of  Cydias  :  '  By 
your  leave,  it  is  just  the  other  way  about,  and 
after  all  that  is  paying  you  no  slight  com- 
pliment. Moliere  made  avarice.  There  is  still 
in  VAvare  much  abstraction,  much  that  is 
abstract.  No  doubt  Harpagon  is  alive ;  but 


HIS  CHARACTERS  157 

he  is  still  and  above  all  a  collection  of  all  the 
traits  of  classical  avarice  gathered  together 
quite  ingeniously  into  a  single  man,  who 
after  all  has  his  three  dimensions.  You  made 
a  miser,  that  is  to  say  a  most  living  creature, 
more  alive  than  is  Moliere's,  fully  detailed, 
leading  a  most  minutely  realised  life,  living 
all  the  time  on  every  page,  and  one  who  is 
not,  who  is  never,  any  other  miser  save  himself 
alone.9 

'  And,  moreover,  you  endowed  him  with  the 
genius  of  his  passion,  the  right  genius  befitting 
his  passion  which  can  be  sustained  by  nothing 
save  its  own  self.  And  that  is  a  trait  at  once 
deep  and  admirable.' 

In  the  same  way  Philippe  Brideau,  goaded 
on  by  his  passion  for  plunder,  finds  out  at 
Issoudun  that  he  has  some  gifts  as  a  psycholo- 
gist and  a  diplomatist,  by  no  means  unrivalled 
ones,  and  yet  quite  remarkable.  Even  Baron 
Hulot  invents  the  cleverest  breaches  of  trust 
in  the  administration  of  Algeria,  which  might 
just  as  well  have  succeeded  instead  of  failing, 
though  it  would  not  have  altered  the  novel, 
for  after  lucky  thefts  Hulot  would  certainly 
have  gone  on  to  commit  one  that  would  have 
brought  about  his  downfall,  and  the  only 


158  BALZAC 

important  thing  here  is  to  show  passion  giving 
genius  to  the  impassioned  man. 

Now,  that  is  true.  Some  one  has  spoken  of 
4  inventive  necessity,'  and  passion,  being  a 
necessity  for  those  whom  it  dominates,  calls 
forth  all  the  inventiveness  of  which  he  is  cap- 
able, and  of  which  he  would  be  wholly  unsus- 
pecting and  unconscious  were  it  not  brought 
out  by  that  passion.  I  think  it  is  Descartes 
who  said  that  the  passions  fix  and  make  definite 
the  ideas  to  which  they  cling,  and  in  which 
they  are  interested,  such  ideas  as,  without 
their  impulsion,  would  pass  by  without  being 
in  any  way  held  or  defined.  The  passions 
make  an  idea  sink  into  the  mind,  and  give  it 
strength  by  bringing  to  bear  on  it  the  entire 
weight  which  is  theirs.  If  genius  be  '  an  in- 
finite capacity  for  taking  pains,'  passion  con- 
fers that  just  by  keeping  the  mind  for  ever 
fixed  on  an  idea  or  group  of  ideas  which  con- 
duce to  its  fulfilment,  and  consequently  it 
gives  genius.  Just  as  Newton  discovers  the 
law  of  gravity  '  by  continually  thinking  about 
it,'  so  passion  makes  Grandet  find  fortune  by 
obliging  him  to  keep  thinking  of  it,  and  never 
allowing  him  one  single  moment  of  his  days  or 
nights  to  think  of  anything  else. 


HIS  CHARACTERS  159 

That  is  Balzac's  special  discovery ;  for  I 
do  not  find  that  any  of  his  predecessors  were 
aware  of  it. 

This  way  of  conceiving  and  carrying  out 
character  has  disadvantages  which  are  readily 
foreseen  and  which  I  have  in  part  already 
pointed  out.  Lofty  or  delicate  -  minded 
characters  are  nearly  always  a  failure.  They 
could,  indeed,  hardly  be  otherwise.  If  a  man 
be  a  single  passion  fatally  devolving  like 
a  force  of  Nature,  he  cannot  help  being  a 
maniac  or  a  kind  of  monster  :  a  maniac  if  his 
passion  be  vulgar  or  trivial,  such  as  over- 
eating or  a  craze  for  collecting ;  a  monster  if 
his  passion  be  mighty  and  enormous,  such  as 
ambition  or  avarice. 

But  what  if  it  be  a  noble  passion  ? 

It  does  not  matter  so  long  as  it  too  acts  like 
a  fatal  force,  if  nothing  holds  it  bridled  in  the 
heart  of  its  possessor.  The  man  will  be  a 
virtuous  maniac  and  nothing  more  ;  a  monster 
of  fatherhood  like  Goriot.  What  makes  a 
character  lofty  so  far  as  art  is  concerned  is 
not  a  beautiful  passion ;  it  is  a  beautiful 
passion  triumphing  over  meaner  ones  ;  it  is 
not  the  organic  growth,  so  to  speak,  the  mere 
vegetation  of  good  instinct  in  the  heart,  it  is 


160  BALZAC 

the  triumph  of  that  good  instinct :  Achilles 
is  beautiful  when  he  yields  to  Priam,  only 
because  he  feels  an  impulse  to  strangle  him. 
Now,  where  there  is  no  conflict  there  can  be 
no  victory.  But  Balzac  has  no  belief  in  the 
conflict,  since  he  holds  to  the  omnipresence  of  a 
single  passion  in  a  heart.  That  is  the  reason 
why  even  these  virtuous  men  are  not  great  souls. 
I  have  nothing  to  say  here  concerning  free-will 
from  the  philosophical  point  of  view ;  but 
were  it  ever  laid  aside  as  a  doctrine,  it  would 
still  remain  indispensable  to  all  artistic  works 
in  which  humanity  provides  the  protagonists. 
As  soon  as  man  becomes  a  thing,  things  are 
more  interesting  than  he. 

Do  you  want  an  example  of  how  powerless 
Balzac  is  in  describing  a  complex  character, 
and  especially  in  showing  the  conflict  of 
passions  in  a  man's  heart  ?  There  are  two 
dramas  running  parallel — and  they  are  indeed 
wonderfully  well  ordered  and  linked  together — 
in  le  Pere  Goriot.  There  is  Goriot's  story,  and 
Rastignac's  story  of  his  start  in  life.  Goriot's 
story  is  the  typical  tale  a  la  Balzac,  the  paint- 
ing of  a  fatal  passion  ending  in  madness  and 
death.  The  story  of  Rastignac's  starting  out 
is  of  quite  a  different  order  :  there  Balzac 


HIS  CHARACTERS  161 

wanted  to  describe  a  soul  still  wavering  be- 
tween the  ruling  passion  that  is  beginning  to 
get  the  better  of  him — ambition — and  the 
scruples  of  honesty  due  to  his  upbringing. 
'  You  have  still  a  few  swaddling  clothes  soiled 
with  virtue,'  as  Vautrin  says  to  him.  It  is 
obvious  that  herein  there  is  drama,  curious, 
alluring,  disquieting  drama  in  real  truth. 
Well,  it  is  the  most  bloodless  part  of  the 
whole  book.  Old  Goriot,  with  his  love  of 
self-sacrifice  and  his  wild  fury  of  devoted 
attachment,  throws  everything  else  into  the 
shade.  Rastignac's  internal  conflict,  however 
careful  Balzac  may  be  in  describing  it,  what- 
ever may  be  the  material  place  he  gives  it,  is 
hardly  noticeable  at  all.  You  might  even  say 
that  I  was  wrong  just  now  hi  calling  Rastignac 
a  complex  character,  for  he  is  just  like  the 
others,  has  but  one  passion,  it  being  in  his  case 
to  get  on  by  hook  or  by  crook  and  per  fas  aut 
nefas,  even  when  in  le  Pere  Goriot  as  Balzac 
depicts  him  he  merely  represents  ambition 
in  the  bud,  with  still  a  few  scruples  due  to 
heredity  and  upbringing,  one  who  is  bored  by 
them  rather  than  at  war  with  them ;  and  this  way 
of  looking  at  things  is  plausible  enough. 

There  still  remains  the  relative  complexity 


162  BALZAC 

of  young  Rastignac,  and  the  conflict,  slight 
though  it  be,  between  his  ambitious  instincts 
and  his  childish  virtues,  which  Balzac  describes 
but  weakly;  having  but  little  understanding 
of  such  things,  he  could  not  illuminate  them 
effectively.  His  genius  was  brought  to  a 
standstill,  or  at  least  stood  hesitating.  He  was 
really  no  more  than  a  powerful  painter  of 
primitive  forces. 

Hence  his  superiority  in  the  painting  of 
middle  or  lower-class  humanity,  in  his  minute 
descriptions  of  commonplace  things.  In  his 
most  questionable  works,  he  is  saved  by  his 
fine  portraiture  of  maniacs,  as,  for  instance, 
that  of  the  tyrannical  self-supposed  invalid, 
M.  de  Mortsauf ,  in  le  Lys  dans  la  Vallee.  Hence 
his  inferiority  in  the  few  studies  of  upper-class 
men  and  women  which  he  attempted.  Hence 
his  almost  complete  failure  in  his  portraits  of 
young  girls.  In  young  girls'  characters  an 
author  may  put  almost  anything  he  likes ; 
they  are  so  very  complex  that  hardly  anything 
will  go  beyond  the  limits  of  likelihood.  Un- 
doubtedly ;  but  what  is  most  unlike  life  is 
to  make  them  quite  devoid  of  complexity. 
Balzac's  are  all  simple,  dull,  insipid,  and  a 
little  silly — Eugenie  Grandet,  Ursule  Mirouet, 


HIS  CHARACTERS  163 

Modeste  Mignon — with  the  bare  possible  ex- 
ception of  Rosalie  de  Watteville  in  Albert 
Savarus.  When  you  compare  them  with  the 
least  country  lass  of  George  Sand's,  with 
Fadette,  Jeanne,  or  La  Brulette,  or  to  the 
young  bourgeoises  of  the  same  author  in  Mont- 
Reveche,  in  Mile.  Merquem,  or  in  la  Confession 
d'une  jeune  Fille,  you  at  once  feel  all  the  differ- 
ence. 

Balzac  was  an  energetic  and  robust  man ; 
he  described  well  those  human  beings  whose 
passions  resemble  spring-tides  or  volcanoes, 
and  whose  actions  are  like  earthquakes.  Some 
people  are  like  that,  and,  under  the  apparent 
tranquillity  imposed  by  social  uniformity,  they 
are  much  more  numerous  than  we  suppose ; 
but  we  must  not  forget  that  there  are  others. 


164  BALZAC 


IF  we  go  into  the  details  of  his  narratives,  his 
descriptions,  his  dissertations,  his  dialogues,  in 
short  into  details  of  his  craftsmanship,  the  first 
impression  we  get  is  one  of  prodigious  uneven- 
ness.  And  that  is  due  first  of  all  to  the  fact 
that,  in  common  with  some  other  writers,  he 
had  not  genius  all  the  time  ;  and  secondly  it 
comes  of  there  being  in  him  a  romantic,  a 
true  realist,  and  a  base  realist,  and  from  the 
fact  that  he  would  mix  up  his  romanticism, 
true  realism,  and  base  realism  all  pell-mell — 
whereas  Flaubert  would  put  his  realism  into 
one  book  and  his  romanticism  into  the  next, 
indiscriminately,  without  discretion  or  dis- 
cernment, and  without  being  in  the  least 
shocked  or  deterred  by  irrelevance  or  impro- 
priety. 

In  a  word,  he  was  lacking  in  taste.  He 
lacked  it  in  a  most  extraordinary  way,  in  such 
a  way  indeed  as  to  teach  it,  and  that  wonder- 


HIS  TASTE  165 

fully  well,  by  the  example  of  its  contrary  ;  and 
in  that  he  proved  himself  singularly  useful. 

He  was  a  romantic  of  the  decadence,  of  the 
declining  later  period.  What  was  called 
romanticism,  that  is  to  say,  the  literature  of 
sensibility  and  imagination — of  imagination 
above  all — had  met  the  fate  of  all  literary 
schools.  It  had  become  formal,  a  mould  for 
unintelligent  copyists,  and  it  had  a  ridiculous 
rear -guard.  Its  extraordinary  heroes  had 
either  become  bandits  or  turned  into  bur- 
lesque and  wholly  incredible  swashbucklers. 
Its  weak  and  querulous  women,  its  Ophelias, 
its  Doloridas,  and  its  Elviras,  had  become 
airy  and  intangible  creatures,  '  tenues  sine 
corpore  vitce,  volitantes  cava  sub  imagine  for mce,' 
its  religious  effusions  had  evaporated  in  a  hazy 
mysticism,  its  strange  adventures  had  degener- 
ated into  incredible  tangles  of  fantastical 
events ;  its  elegiac  poetry  had  degenerated 
into  ballad  songs  like  that  of  Loisa  Puget,1 
'  When  you  shall  see  the  dead  leaves  fall.' 
All  this  base  romanticism — for  it  seems  diffi- 
cult to  give  it  a  more  definite  or  more  honour- 
able name — Balzac  welcomed  and  enjoyed, 
he  a  man  of  genius,  unless  it  be  indeed  that  he 

1  A  popular  composer  of  ballads  (1810-89).— TR. 


166  BALZAC 

exploited  it  through  knowing  and  despising  his 
public  ;  and  he  gave  it  a  huge  place  in  his  work. 
There  is  something  of  a  Eugene  Sue  in  him,  a 
Soulie,  or  a  bad  pupil  of  Ballanche,1  if  indeed 
Ballanche  may  be  said  to  have  had  any  good 
ones.  He  told  lurid  stories  of  strange  con- 
victs who  underwent  fantastical  transforma- 
tions (Derniere  Incarnation  de  Vautriri),  of 
mysterious  and  criminal  associations  (Histoire 
des  Treize),  novels  of  the  police-courts  (Une 
tenebreuse  Affaire),  in  which  we  find  observa- 
tion and  a  certain  historical  sense,  though  they 
remind  you,  above  all,  of  Gaboriau.  He  wasted 
half  his  life  in  doing  that,  and  I  will  add  once 
more  that  it  would  have  been  all  one  to  me 
had  it  not  happened,  as  it  almost  always  does, 
that  in  some  of  his  other  works,  and  those 
among  the  most  serious,  the  wild  extravagance 
of  the  circulating  library  novelist  breaks  out 
all  at  once,  both  upsetting  and  spoiling  the 
character  of  the  story.  We  were  feeling  true 
reality,  well  observed  and  well  drawn,  and  all 
at  once  a  quick  and  unaccountable  stroke  of 
luck  happens  to  some  one,  an  unexpected 
change  of  scene  or  a  leap  into  the  romanesque 
shocks  us  and  nullifies  all  our  pleasure.  Vulgar 

1  Mystic  writer  (1776-1847)  and  friend  of  Mme.  Re'camier. — Tn. 


HIS  TASTE  167 

and  facile  imagination — the  student's  or  the 
grisette's  imagination — has  carried  the  day. 

Such  is  the  sudden  transition  of  M.  de  Mort- 
sauf  (le  Lys  dans  la  Vallee]  from  penury  to 
great  wealth ;  such  is  Philippe  Brideau's  rapid 
and  inexplicable  metamorphosis  from  a  swind- 
ling old  soldier,  under  police  supervision,  into 
an  officer  general,  high  dignitary,  duke  and 
peer  of  France,  or  next  door  to  it.  Are  we 
reading  a  novel  or  the  Grande  Duchesse  de 
Gerolstein  ?  * 

The  Illusions  perdues  is  a  good  realistic  novel 
in  which  there  is  much  talent.  But  look 
closely  into  the  life  that  Rubempre  leads  when 
afloat  in  journalism.  Look  at  the  account  of 
one  of  his  days,  either  of  pleasure  or  of  toil. 
I  defy  you  to  find  in  it — the  greatest  power  of 
work  being  supposed  and  sleep  quite  left  out 
of  account — less  than  forty  or  forty-five  hours. 
Pantagruel's  day's  work  with  Ponocrates  seems 
mere  idleness  compared  to  it.  Remember 
likewise  the  no  less  gigantic  wonders  as  regards 
work  and  economy  in  Albert  Savarus  and  la 
Peau  de  Chagrin.  We  are  in  the  midst  of 
phantasmagoria.  It  spoils  and  weakens  what 
is  beside  it,  makes  you  distrustful,  and  takes 

1  The  opera-bouffe  of  Offenbach. — TR. 


168  BALZAC 

away,  so  to  speak,  from  the  authority  of  his 
observation  as  a  painter  of  manners. 

Nothing  could  be  queerer,  as  a  conception, 
as  an  imagination  utterly  freed  from  reality, 
than  Petits  Bourgeois  and  Derniere  Incarnation 
de  Vautrin ;  but  in  Illusions  perdues,  that  is 
itself  so  sensible  a  novel,  that  false  cardinal 
who  meets  on  a  road  a  young  man  he  has  never 
seen  before,  and  who  kisses  him  after  ten 
minutes'  talk,  and  that  Rubempre  who  allows 
the  former  to  do  so  without  the  least  marvel- 
ling, are  at  least  very  unusual  people.  In  a 
story  full  of  characters  ever  so  real,  a  single 
false  and  conventional  being  is  enough  to  set 
us  all  at  sixes  and  sevens.  In  la  Cousine  Bette 
we  come  across  that  little  Atala  of  the  Fau- 
bourg Saint- Antoine,  a  tiny  girl  who  is  physic- 
ally depraved  and  yet  perfectly  innocent, 
since  she  is  quite  ignorant  of  everything,  not 
only  of  the  difference  between  good  and  evil, 
but  of  the  civil  institutions  as  well — marriage, 
town  hall,  church,  the  difference  between  a 
legal  wife  and  one  who  is  not  so ;  and  it  seems 
that  she  has  never  seen  a  wedding  pass  along 
her  suburban  streets.  Call  it  lack  of  con- 
science if  you  will ;  but,  as  for  ignorance  of 
social  conditions  and  acts  in  a  little  Parisian 


HIS  TASTE  169 

girl — why,  it  is  simply  fantastic.  It  is  a  young 
savage,  and  not  a  suburban  girl  that  you  are 
introduced  to.  And  this  is  the  more  so  as  she 
is  far  from  being  stupid ;  she  is  clever  and 
sharp,  and  seems  to  have  read  the  newspapers, 
for  she  has  quite  caught  the  style  of  them  : 
4  Father  wanted  it  ...  but  mother  did  not 
approve ' — *  I  can't  say  why,  but  I  was  the  cause 
of  continual  bickering  between  my  parents.' 
Such  are  the  irreconcilable  elements  which 
proclaim  the  glaring  improbability.  Such  an 
Atala  does  not  exist. 

Femme  de  trente  Ans  was,  in  its  first  drafting, 
a  plain  tale,  precise  and  interesting  in  its 
truth,  and  Sainte-Beuve  was  quite  right  in 
advising  us  to  read  it  in  its  first  shape.  When 
Balzac  had  embellished  it,  this  is  what  he 
turned  it  into :  When  twenty-five,  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont,  who  had  married  a  booby  of 
whom  she  had  once  been  fond,  but  of  whom  she 
had  grown  weary,  took  a  lover  and  was  soon 
the  involuntary  cause  of  his  death.  When 
thirty  she  took  another.  Her  daughter 
Helene,  who  is  the  child  of  her  husband,  cannot 
stand  her  little  brother,  who  is  the  first  lover's 
son,  and  his  mother's  favourite.  During  a 
walk  in  the  suburbs  she  pushes  him  over  a 


170  BALZAC 

steep  embankment  into  the  Bievre,  and  he  is 
drowned.  She  grows  up.  She  is  now  eigh- 
teen. One  evening,  fairly  late,  there  is  a 
double  knock  at  the  door  of  M.  and  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont's  mansion.  It  is  a  man  who  has 
just  committed  murder,  and  who  is  pursued 
by  mounted  gendarmes.  Without  vouch- 
safing to  tell  them  his  name  or  anything  else, 
he  demands  their  hospitality  for  two  hours, 
and  M.  d'Aiglemont  grants  it  him,  and,  while  he 
goes  out  to  talk  to  the  gendarmes,  who  in  turn 
have  been  knocking  at  the  door,  Helene  goes 
up  to  the  bedroom  in  which  her  father  has 
hidden  the  strange  visitor,  contemplates  him, 
exchanges  a  few  words,  and  comes  down  again. 
She  is  soon  followed  by  the  murderer,  who 
breaks  in  upon  the  family  circle.  '  A  murderer 
here  ! '  cries  M.  d'Aiglemont.  Then  comes  the 
thunderbolt.  As  for  Helene,  that  word  seemed 
to  decide  her  life  for  her,  and  her  face  betrayed 
not  the  least  sign  of  astonishment.  It  was  as 
though  she  had  been  expecting  this  man.  Her 
so  vast  thoughts  had  not  been  without  their 
meaning.  The  punishment  which  God  had 
prepared  for  her  sins  was  revealed.  Deeming 
herself  as  much  a  criminal  as  he,  the  girl  looked 
on  him  with  an  untroubled  eye ;  she  was  his 


HIS  TASTE  171 

mate,  his  sister.  For  her,  God's  will  was  mani- 
fest in  this  strange  event.  A  few  years  later 
and  reason  would  have  righted  her  remorse  ; 
but  at  that  moment  it  maddened  her.  The 
stranger  remained  motionless  and  cold.  A 
disdainful  smile  hovered  over  his  face  and  his 
thick  red  lips.  '  Murder  an  old  man  !  '  said 
M.  d'Aiglemont  to  the  stranger,  * ...  have  you 
never  had  any  family  then  ?  .  .  .  Away  with 
you.  .  .  .'  The  murderer  withdraws ;  but 
Helene  goes  after  him,  and  declares  that  she 
will  follow  him  wherever  he  goes.  She  will  not 
go  back  on  that  resolution.  '  But  his  hands 
are  stained  with  blood,'  says  her  father.  '  I 
will  wipe  it  off,'  replies  his  daughter.  '  But 
how  do  you  know  that  he  wants  you  ?  '  *  I 
believe  in  him,'  says  Helene.  '  But  you  can't 
realise  all  the  sufferings  that  you  will  have  to 
go  through.'  '  I  think  of  his.'  Finally  she  sets 
out  with  the  murderer,  who  is  quite  willing  to 
take  her.  4  Madam,'  says  M.  d'Aiglemont  to 
his  wife,  '  I  think  I  must  be  dreaming ;  this 
adventure  conceals  some  mystery ;  you  must 
know  something  about  it.' 

The  murderer  turns  pirate  ;  M.  d'Aiglemont 
meets  him  during  a  voyage,  the  pirate  captur- 
ing the  vessel  on  which  he  is  a  passenger,  and 


172  BALZAC 

slaughtering  its  crew.  He  was  just  on  the 
point  of  throwing  M.  d'Aiglemont  himself  into 
the  water  when  their  eyes  met ;  *  the  father 
and  the  son-in-law  recognised  each  other  in 
a  flash.'  Thereupon  the  son-in-law  is  merci- 
ful and  throws  his  father-in-law  into  his 
daughter's  arms  :  '  Helene  ! ' — '  My  father  ! ' 
.  .  .  '  And  are  you  happy  ?  '  —  'I  am  the 
happiest  of  women.' — '  And  your  conscience  ?  ' 
— 4  He  is  my  conscience.'  The  generous  pirate 
gives  M.  d'Aiglemont  a  huge  bundle  of  bank- 
notes and  puts  him  ashore  on  the  French  coast. 
M.  d'Aiglemont  dies  shortly  afterwards. 

Some  years  later  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  at  a 
small  village  hostelry  in  the  Pyrenees  where 
she  has  come  to  drink  the  waters,  meets  a 
young  woman  who  is  dying.  It  is  Helene, 
who  dies,  repentant,  in  her  mother's  arms. 

The  latter  had  a  younger  daughter,  Mo'ina, 
left.  She  married,  and  had  a  lover  who  was 
the  son  of  the  very  man  last  favoured  by  her 
mother.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  lectures  her  about 
it.  '  Well,  mother,  I  did  not  suppose  you  would 
be  jealous  of  any  one  but  the  father.'  '  My 
child,'  answered  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  in  an 
altered  voice, '  you  have  just  been  more  pitiless 
towards  your  mother  than  was  ever  the  man 


HIS  TASTE  173 

whom  she  offended,  more  pitiless  than  God 
Himself  perchance  will  be.'  And  she  dies  the 
same  day. 

That  is  what  Balzac  looked  upon,  and  quite 
seriously  perhaps,  as  a  novel  of  manners. 

All  the  same  his  mysticism,  so  perfectly 
unlike  his  nature,  smacks  of  the  romantic. 
There  is  something  about  it  that  is  tender, 
strained,  and  deliberately  sought  for.  Not 
only  are  Louis  Lambert  and  Seraphita  (in  spite 
of  its  rather  beautiful  lyrical  ending)  tedious 
and  badly  linked  day-dreams,  but  they  do  not 
even  ring  true.  They  seem  to  be,  like  George 
Sand's  les  Sept  Cordes  de  la  Lyre,  the  effect  of  a 
kind  of  desperate  resolve  to  produce  something 
in  keeping  with  the  prevailing  taste.  '  They 
make  monsters,  let  us  make  monsters  too,' 
said  George  Sand.  '  They  also  make  clouds,' 
Balzac  seems  to  say,  '  let  us  therefore  be  as 
cloudy  as  any  of  them.' 

It  was  his  ambition  to  rewrite  Sainte-Beuve's 
Volupte,  which  he  considered  false,  to  write 
the  novel  of  chaste  love,  of  pure  virtue,  and 
exalted  delicacy ;  and  he  carried  out  his 
intention  in  le  Lys  dans  la  Vallee.  That  book, 
very  much  admired  when  it  was  first  brought 
out,  is  perhaps,  except  for  a  few  details,  the 


174  BALZAC 

very  worst  novel  that  I  know  of.     Because 
Mme.  de  Mortsauf  keeps  her  chastity  and  makes 
speeches  of  such  abysmal  pedantry  as  far  out- 
do la  Nouvelle  Helotse,  about  virtue,  abnega- 
tion,   renunciation,    and   self-sacrifice,   Balzac 
thinks  he  has  described  the  honest  woman. 
It  is  true  that  this  honest  woman  spends  all 
her  evenings  in  a  park  explaining  virtue  to  a 
young  man  whom  she  loves.     It  seems  even 
that  she  would  lose  nothing  on  the  score  of 
honesty  by  talking  less  about  it.     All  the  more 
so  an  account  of  her  style,  which  is  thus  :  '  Did 
not  my  confession  show  you  the  three  children 
for  whose  sake  I  must  not  transgress,  on  whom 
I  must  weep  my  healing  dew,  and  let  my  soul 
irradiate  them  without  pollution  of  its  slightest 
particle  ?     Do  not  embitter  a  mother's  milk  !  ' 
The  young  man  is  just  as  upright,  and  has  the 
same  simple  way  of  expressing  himself.     It  is 
he  who  relates  a  pathetic  scene  in  which  he 
played  a  very  beautiful  part :    '  Madame  is 
right,  I  said,  beginning  to  speak  in  a  tremulous 
voice  which  vibrated  in  those  two  hearts  into 
which  I  threw  my  hopes  lost  for  ever,  and 
which  I  calmed  by  the  expression  of  the  loftiest 
of  all  grief,  the  dull  cry  of  which  quenched 
that  dispute,  just  as  everything  is  hushed  when 


HIS  TASTE  175 

the  lion  roars.  Yea,  the  supremest  boon 
which  reason  can  confer  on  us  is  to  ascribe  our 
virtues  to  the  beings  whose  happiness  is  our 
work,  and  to  whom  we  give  happiness  not  by 
calculating,  nor  by  duty,  but  by  an  inexhaust- 
ible and  voluntary  affection.'  Balzac  evi- 
dently took  pains.  The  thing  was  to  set  really 
elect  souls  thinking  and  speaking.  He  under- 
stood well  enough  that  high  moral  distinction 
consists  in  expressing  the  thoughts  of  Joseph 
Prudhomme  in  the  style  of  M.  d'Arlincourt. 

Then  there  was  in  Balzac  a  mock  romantic, 
a  popular  romantic,  a  trashy  romantic,  who 
plays  havoc  with  the  realistic  writer  ;  there  was 
the  true  realistic  writer  whom  we  have  already 
closely  examined  and  admired ;  and  then, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  scale,  there  was  a  rather 
low  realistic  writer,  a  little  unkindly,  who  gives 
us  a  foretaste  of  what  was  for  some  time  called 
4  Naturalism.5 

This  low  realism  consists  in  seeking  truth 
and  reality  among  the  lowest  and  most  repug- 
nant parts  of  real  life,  as  though  they  were  the 
whole  of  it.  Antiquity  with  its  Apuleius  and 
Petronius  knew  of  it,  the  sixteenth  century  with 
its  Beroald  de  Verville  and  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury with  its  Restif  also  knew  of  it.  Realism, 


176  BALZAC 

true  realism,  slips  easily  into  this  degeneracy 
of  itself.  It  is  necessary  to  understand,  also, 
that  if  realism  be  a  solid  basis  of  art,  nothing 
is  nevertheless  more  difficult  than  to  be  truly 
realistic  without  overstepping  the  mark.  Real- 
istic art  consists  in  seeing  things  and  men 
exactly  and  dispassionately,  and  in  describing 
them  in  the  same  way.  It  should  therefore 
have,  for  method — not  to  throw  at  random  all 
reality  into  its  work  of  art,  for  that  is  materi- 
ally impossible,  and  if  realism  meant  no  more 
than  that,  the  art  of  realism  would  consist  of 
walking  up  and  down  the  street — but  rather  to 
choose  without  passion,  with  no  other  taste 
but  for  the  truth,  the  most  significant  among 
the  thousand  details  of  reality,  and  to  arrange 
them  hi  order,  so  as  to  give  us  the  very  impress 
of  reality  itself,  only  even  more  vividly. 

It  seems  easy  enough  though  it  is  most 
difficult,  all  question  of  genius  being  put  aside. 
The  fact  is  that  when  an  artist  writes  he  does 
so  as  every  one  does  everything,  impelled  there- 
to by  some  sort  of  passion.  There  is  always,  in 
spite  of  himself,  some  ulterior  motive,  some 
secret  hankering  to  prove,  convince,  touch, 
convert,  or  win  over  the  reader ;  to  pour  into 
his  work  something  of  his  own  thoughts,  hopes, 


HIS  TASTE  177 

regrets,  or  desires.  Here,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  must  be  nothing  of  all  that ;  realistic 
art  must  be  as  impersonal  as  is  possible.  It 
must  reveal  nothing  of  the  author's  own  feel- 
ings. And  why  not  ? 

Because  we  are  concerned  merely  with  the 
description  of  reality,  and  as  soon  as  I  catch 
sight  of  the  author's  own  feelings,  or  even  of 
his  leanings,  I  at  once  suspect  him  of  having 
arranged  his  reality  and  given  it  a  twist  to  suit 
his  own  predilections.  From  that  moment  the 
illusion  of  reality  is  no  more.  It  has  failed. 
We  are  dealing  with  quite  another  art  which, 
I  am  fully  aware,  may  be  quite  admirable ; 
but  it  is  no  longer  realism. 

If  this  be  true,  it  will  be  readily  seen  how 
very  intricate  things  become.  It  is  very 
difficult  for  a  writer  to  write  without  being 
moved  thereto  by  his  feelings,  and  as  soon  as 
his  feelings  stir  him  in  writing  he  ceases  to 
be  a  realist.  For  exactly  as  something  ceases 
to  be  realism,  so  it  becomes  not  merely  some- 
thing different,  but  its  very  contrary. 

And  this  degeneration  of  realism  into  things 
which  are  the  very  negation  of  it  happens  con- 
stantly in  the  history  of  the  art.  Racine  is  a 
realist  with  a  passion  for  truth,  as  well  as  for  a 


178  BALZAC 

certain  conventional  nobleness  which  rarely 
makes  you  lose  sight  of  reality ;  La  Bruyere  is 
a  wonderfully  exact  realist,  but  with  a  certain 
misanthropical  bitterness ;  the  English  realists 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  with  a  penetrating 
insight  and  an  incomparable  sense  of  reality, 
take  good  care  to  move  the  reader  over  human 
misery,  and  have  effusions  of  sensibility,  as  in 
Dickens,  or  have  a  bent  for  moralising  and  a 
certain  preachiness,  as  in  George  Eliot — and 
these  things  are  most  acceptable  and  often 
touching  in  themselves,  but  they  already  lead 
us  a  little  astray  from  that  art  which  claims 
to  be  no  more  than  '  the  sworn  testimony  of  a 
witness  on  oath.'  1 

It  even  comes  about,  according  to  the  special 
feeling  which  happens  to  prompt  the  author, 
that  realism  leads  to  the  most  divergent  ways 
in  describing  the  same  people.  Flaubert  and 
Tolstoi  have  both  a  real  passion  for  middle- 
class  men  of  less  than  average  intellect.  Only 
Flaubert  describes  them — and  that  wonder- 
fully well— with  truly  savage  irony,  banter,  and 
sarcasm,  nudging  us  every  moment  most 
ungraciously,  as  who  should  say,  '  Are  they 

1  George    Eliot's   own    expression    in   Adam   Bede.      Compare 
le  Roman  Naturatiste  of  Brunetiere. 


HIS  TASTE  179 

ludicrous  enough  ? '  while  Tolstoi  describes, 
with  wonderful  fidelity,  but  with  a  kind  of 
veneration  and  tenderness,  seeming  as  though 
at  every  line  he  actually  exclaimed,  c  What 
real  grandeur ! '  And  I  do  not  know  which 
of  the  two  is  the  less  pleasing. 

In  France  it  is,  as  a  rule,  to  the  side  of 
sarcasm — oftenest  implicit — that  our  realistic 
writers  tend.  Scarron,  Furetiere  (the  author 
of  Caquets  de  rAccouchee),  La  Bruyere  hardly 
described  true,  common,  middle-class  life  save 
to  mock  at  it.  Realism,  in  the  classical  period, 
is  generally  considered  only  fit  subject-matter 
for  comic  work. 

Balzac's  originality  is  just  in  his  understand- 
ing that  it  might  be  supremely  tragical.  Only 
if  it  is  on  this  side  that  he  scored,  it  is  also  the 
side  on  which  he  overreached  himself.  That  is 
where  his  passion  leads  him,  that  is  where  he 
becomes  systematic,  and  that  is  where  he  goes 
astray  from  true  realism.  Realism  becomes 
with  him  a  form  of  pessimism.  He  was  un- 
deniably fond  of  looking  at  the  ugly  side  of 
things  and  of  men.  He  would  storm  in  private 
conversation  against  'the  hypocrisy  of  the 
beautiful.'  He  loved  to  push  to  extremes, 
beyond  the  limits  of  truth,  at  least  beyond 


180  BALZAC 

the  limits  of  ordinary  and  average  truth  (and 
ordinary  and  average  truth  is  the  proper 
quarry  for  true  realism) — the  horror  of  his 
situations,  the  villainy,  the  treachery,  and  the 
meanness  of  men  ;  in  short,  he  opened  up  the 
way  for  that  '  brutal  literature '  which  Weiss  so 
happily  named.  He  loved  subjects  that  were 
more  than  a  little  shameful,  sinister,  or  shocking, 
as  may  be  seen  in  Splendeurs  et  Miseres  des 
Courtisanes,  la  Fille  aux  Yeux  (For,  and  Une 
Passion  dans  le  Desert.  He  loved  what  was 
violent  and  brutal. 

It  is  neither  brutality  nor  violence  that  I 
pretend  to  root  out  of  art's  domain ;  it  is  brutal- 
ity and  violence  when  they  are  manifestly 
false,  and  by  false  I  mean  most  exceptional, 
outside  average  truth,  and  when  they  ruin  the 
impression  of  reality  which  the  work  made  at 
its  outset.  That  Rubempre  should  be  reduced 
to  spending  a  night  by  the  corpse  of  his  mistress, 
that  he  should  be  forced  to  rhyme  drinking 
songs  and  obscenity  to  pay  for  its  burial — that 
I  find  tragic,  and  I  am  moved,  for  it  may  very 
well  be  true.  But  that  Vautrin,  hidden  at 
the  Vauquer  boarding-house,  with  all  the 
appearance  of  an  honest  and  jovial  bourgeois, 
should  suddenly  launch  out  into  a  dissertation 


HIS  TASTE  181 

(wonderful  indeed  in  itself)  on  Paris  considered 
as  a  cut-throat,  seems  to  me  no  more  than  a 
useless  and  cynical  outburst ;  it  is  not  Vautrin 
who  speaks — he  is  far  too  clever  for  that — 
it  is  Balzac  himself  who  here  obtrudes  with 
his  own  pessimistic  profession  of  faith.  In 
making  Mme.  Marneffe  in  her  death-bed 
repentance  say  in  ignoble  language  such  as  was 
never  hers  in  life — '  I  must  make  up  God,'  I 
see  only  too  well  that  Balzac  falsifies  the 
character,  stretches  it  to  the  very  limit  and 
beyond,  outrages  truth  so  as  to  glut  his  whim 
for  shocking  the  honest  reader  by  an  exhibition 
of  coarseness. 

I  formerly  exaggerated  the  extent  of  brutal 
literature  in  Balzac's  work.  All  things  con- 
sidered, it  is  not  very  considerable,  and  if  the 
thing  be  to  assess  it,  which  seems  a  little 
pedantic,  though  it  be  no  more  than  critical 
honesty,  the  extent  in  Balzac's  work  of  shoddy 
romanticism  is  much  more  important  than  that 
of  low  realism.  Still,  that  too  is  sufficiently 
important,  and  if  in  regard  to  it  Balzac  hardly 
went  the  length  of  his  contemptible  successors, 
who  have  ended  in  rehabilitating  him,  he  still 
went  much  farther  than  his  predecessors  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  if  he  may  be  said  to  have 


182  BALZAC 

had  any.  And  if  the  inheritors  of  that  part  of 
his  legacy  cause  him  to  appear  innocent  when 
compared  with  them,  it  is  still  true  that  they 
put  the  responsibility  on  their  forerunner,  since 
they  march  under  his  flag,  as  indeed  they 
have  considerable  reason  for  doing.  A  whole 
literature  grew  up  out  of  Balzac's  cesspools. 
A  good  many  writers  saw  or  wished  to  see 
nothing  but  that  in  him  and  imitated  nothing 
else.  He  is  responsible  for  all  the  easy-going 
and  damnable  audacity  of  all  those  novel- 
writers  who  pretended  to  believe  that  realism 
lies  in  the  study  of  sinister  or  shameful  abnor- 
mality; who,  under  the  cloak  of  reality,  only 
made  a  show  of  loathsome  horror,  and  who, 
I  very  much  regret  to  say,  ended  by  turning 
the  word  '  realism  '  into  a  current  synonym  for 
4  infamous  writings.5 

Ready-made  romanticism,  coarse  realism  are 
the  two  things  which  spoil  Balzac's  work,  the 
former  very  much  and  the  latter  a  little. 
What  spoils  nearly  the  whole  of  it  is  the 
vulgarity  that  was  inherent  in  the  man's 
nature  and  crept  into  nearly  everything  he  did. 
Sainte-Beuve,  in  a  short  admonishment  ad- 
dressed to  Taine  but  intended  especially  for 
Balzac  (and  we  know  how  fond  he  was  of  these 


HIS  TASTE  183 

underhand  and  indirect  ways),  pointed  out  very 
neatly  this  almost  inherent  vulgarity:  'In 
speaking  of  la  Princesse  de  Cleves,  you  cite  one 
of  Balzac's  novels  le  Lys  dans  la  Vallee,  and  you 
own  that  people  find  it  "  coarse  and  medical " 
when  compared  with  the  other.  Let  me  tell 
you  that  you  suppose  rather  too  easily  that 
those  quite  modern  novels,  those  parts  of  the 
dialogue  quoted  by  you,  are  accepted  or  have 
been  accepted  when  they  were  first  brought 
out  as  types  of  present-day  delicacy.  For  my 
part  I  confess  I  lived  in  my  youth  only  with 
people  who  were  shocked  by  them,  though 
indeed  they  did  justice  to  their  authors  in 
other  parts  of  their  talent.  I  can  assure  you 
that  those  passages  that  seem  to  you  coarse 
only  when  compared  with  la  Princesse  de 
Cleves  seemed  in  my  time  and  to  most  readers 
quite  coarse  in  themselves.  Our  scales,  even 
in  that  nineteenth  century  so  different  from 
the  others,  were  less  clumsy  than  you  suppose. 
It  is  true  that  fair  criticism,  sincere  and  vera- 
cious, was,  as  it  perhaps  still  is,  only  made  in 
talking ;  people  write  only  to  praise.  That 
would  merely  prove  that  you  must  discount 
much  that  is  written,  and  that  when  it  is  said 
and  repeated  that  literature  is  the  expression 


184  BALZAC 

of  society,  it  is  advisable  to  accept  the  dictum 
only  with  considerable  caution  and  reserve  ' 
(1864). 

Yes,  it  is  perfectly  true  that  Balzac's  work  is 
marred  by  much  trivial  coarseness  which  can 
never  be  looked  on  as  anything  else,  whatever 
be  the  age.  He  is  vulgar,  for  instance,  when- 
ever he  tries  to  be  witty,  for  he  had  no  real  wit 
whatever.  He  is  wonderful  in  the  conversa- 
tion which  he  puts  into  the  mouths  of  'the 
wittiest  men  in  Paris.'  They  are  stupid  ;  his 
Parisian  humorists  carry  on  like  merry-making 
wagoners ;  his  dukes  indulge  in  puns,  in  a 
pen  pres,  and  in  queues  de  mots.  He  himself, 
when  witty  on  his  own  account,  talks  as 
follows  :  4  Instead  of  those  heaps  of  stuffed 
game  fated  never  to  be  cooked,  instead  of  those 
fantastic  fishes  that  justify  the  sally  of  the 
mountebank,  "  I  saw  a  beautiful  carp,  I  hope 
to  buy  it  in  a  week,"  instead  of  those  first-fruits 
(which  ought  rather  to  be  called  last-fruits) 
deceitfully  displayed  in  shop-windows  for  the 
delight  of  corporals  and  their  sweethearts, 
honest  Flicoteaux  set  out  salad-bowls  adorned 
with  many  mends  in  which  heaps  of  stewed 
prunes  cheered  the  eyes  of  the  guests,  sure  that 
the  word  dessert,  so  wasted  on  most  bills,  was 


HIS  TASTE  185 

not  a  mere  title-deed.  .  .  .  The  food  is  but 
little  varied.  Potatoes  last  eternally  here ; 
were  there  not  a  single  potato  left  in  Ireland, 
nor  anywhere  else,  you  would  still  find  some  at 
Flicoteaux's.  They  have  appeared  there  for 
the  last  thirty  years  under  that  fair  colour  of 
which  Titian  was  so  fond,  sprinkled  over  with 
chopped  pot  herbs,  and  enjoying  a  privilege 
much  envied  by  the  ladies — that  of  looking  in 
1814  just  as  they  will  appear  in  1840.  .  .  .  The 
female  of  the  ox  predominates,  and  her  son 
abounds  under  a  variety  of  most  ingenious 
aspects.  An  old  slander,  once  again  repeated 
at  the  time  of  Lucien's  coming,  consisted  in 
attributing  the  appearance  of  beef-steak  to 
some  mortality  among  horses.  .  .  .  The  guests 
there  have  a  gravity  which  hardly  ever  thaws, 
perhaps  owing  to  the  catholicity  of  the  wine 
which  forbids  all  expansion.  .  .  .'  And  so  on. 
What  may  seem  astonishing  at  first,  though 
it  ought  not  to  surprise  us  when  we  remember 
that  the  '  thing  seen  '  is  always  a  thing  seen 
through  a  temperament — he  saw  something 
of  the  world,  and  so  true  is  it  that  mere  obser- 
vation is  not  enough  and  that  our  own  feelings, 
at  least  in  part,  are  compromised  in  the  impres- 
sion which  things  make  on  us,  that  his  high  life 


186  BALZAC 

reminds  you  of  a  door-keeper's  lodge  in  the 
poorer  districts.  A  lady  questioning  a  vis- 
count says,  '  Do  you  really  mean  it,  my  pet  ?  ' 
A  duchess  exclaims  4  Hein  ? '  And  Eugene 
understood  that  hein  which  need  not  perhaps 
astonish  us  when  we  remember  his  extraordin- 
ary behaviour,  for  two  hours  on  end,  at  Mme. 
Restaud's.  A  viscountess  says  to  a  baron  at 
their  second  meeting,  '  You  are  a  darling  man,' 
and  Eugene  (for  once  again  it  is  he)  says  to 
himself,  '  She  is  charming ! '  He  is  really  an 
astonishing  fellow  is  Eugene. 

It  all  becomes  very  amusing,  without  Balzac 
in  the  least  meaning  it,  by  reason  of  its  absurd- 
ity. You  might  take  it  to  be  a  parody.  These 
are  great  ladies,  and  there  is  even  a  young  girl : 
4  Hortense's  first  word  [she  is  the  young  girl] 
on  addressing  her  aunt  had  been,  "  How 's 
your  lover  ?  .  .  .  I  should  like  to  meet  him." 
"  So  as  to  see  what  sort  of  a  looking  man  it  is 
that  can  love  an  old  nanny-goat  ?  "  "  He 
must  be  a  monstrous  old  clerk  with  a  billy-goat's 
beard,"  said  Hortense.  "  I  have  borne  him  in 
my  heart  these  four  years.  ..."  "  You  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  love."  "  We  all  know  that 
business  the  minute  we  are  born.  ..." 
And  so  on. 


HIS  TASTE  187 

A  baroness  is  obliged  to  seek  an  interview 
with  an  actress,  and  Balzac  warns  us  that  she 
finds  her  calm  and  sedate,  noble,  simple,  and 
with  a  bearing  that  pays  homage  to  the  virtuous 
wife.  Whereupon  the  actress  summons  her 
domestic,  and  has  with  him,  the  baroness 
making  a  third  party,  a  back-parlour  conversa- 
tion :  '  Madam's  embroideress  is  married.' 
'  An  irregular  union  ?  '  asked  Josepha.  And 
then  to  the  baroness  herself  :  '  We  '11  soon  find 
your  husband  for  you,  and,  if  he  is  down  in 
the  mud,  well,  he  can  wash  himself  again.  For 
well-brought-up  people  it  is  only  a  question  of 
clothes.  .  .  .  Damme !  The  poor  man 's  fond 
of  women.  Well,  look  here,  if  you  'd  only  got 
a  little  of  our  spice  about  you  you  'd  never 
have  let  him  go  running  loose ;  for  you  would 
have  been  what  we  know  how  to  be — all  women 
for  one  man.  The  government  ought  really  to 
start  a  training-school  for  honest  women.  But 
governments  are  so  strait-laced !  People  we  lead 
lead  them.  As  for  me,  I  pity  the  people.  .  .  .' 
That  is  Balzac's  notion  of  fine  breeding. 

He  can  say  of  Hulot,  the  prey  of  Mme.  Mar- 
neffe  :  4  He  had  not  yet  known  the  charms  of 
virtue  that  withstands,  and  Valerie  made  him 
taste  them,  as  the  song  goes,  all  along  the  river. 


188  BALZAC 

"  Don't  begin  by  dishonouring  the  woman  whom 
you  pretend  to  love,"  Valerie  would  say, 
"  otherwise  I  shall  not  believe  you,  and  I  like 
to  believe  you,"  she  added  with  an  ogling 
glance,  like  Saint  Theresa  squinting  at  the 
sky.' 

In  the  admirable  Menage  de  Gargon,  one-third 
of  the  whole  book  is  devoted  to  relating  the 
silly  tricks  of  the  Chevaliers  de  la  Desceuvrance 
without  their  being  in  the  least  degree  useful 
to  the  development  of  the  story,  nor  even  con- 
nected with  the  novel  in  any  way  whatever, 
so  convinced  was  the  author  that  these  smart 
tricks  were  interesting  in  themselves. 

Here  again  is  the  Marchioness  d'Espard,  who 
says  to  Rubempre,  on  seeing  him,  I  believe, 
for  the  first  time,  '.  .  .  You  treat  these  ideas 
as  visionary  or  merely  trifling ;  but  we  have 
seen  a  little  of  life  and  we  know  how  much 
stability  there  is  in  the  title  of  count  for 
an  elegant  and  handsome  young  man.'  And 
Lucien  has  not  a  word  nor  a  gesture  to  offer  by 
way  of  protest ;  he  finds  it  quite  natural  that 
a  marchioness  should  say  that  to  him  point- 
blank.  Balzac  too.  '  Lucien  thought  it  was 
a  prodigy  like  the  one  whom  he  met  at  his 
first  soiree  at  the  Dramatic  Panorama.'  And 


HIS  TASTE  189 

Balzac  himself  shows  no  sensible  difference 
between  the  soiree  at  the  Dramatic  Panorama 
and  that  spent  at  Mme.  de  Montcornet's. 

In  la  Femme  abandonnee  Balzac  meant  to 
paint  a  woman  of  the  highest  rank  in  the  stern 
and  sad  dignity  of  her  abandonment,  her 
solitude,  and  her  despair.  This  is  how  she 
receives  a  young  gentleman  whom  she  has 
never  seen,  and  who  has  forced  his  way  into 
her  house  by  means  of  a  trick,  though  a  harm- 
less one  :  '  At  the  corner  of  the  mantelpiece 
he  saw  a  young  woman  sitting  in  a  modern 
easy-chair,  the  low  seat  of  which  allowed  her 
to  tilt  her  head  at  various  angles,  all  of  them 
full  of  grace  and  elegance ;  to  bow,  to  bend, 
to  hold  it  up  languidly  as  if  it  were  a  heavy 
burden  ;  then  to  cross  her  feet[?],  to  show  or 
to  hide  them  under  the  long  folds  of  a  black 
dress.  The  viscountess  was  about  to  lay  down 
on  a  small  round  table  the  book  she  had  been 
reading ;  when,  having  at  the  same  time 
turned  her  head  towards  M.  de  Nueil,  the  book 
being  badly  put  [this  book  that  turns  its  head 
towards  M.  de  Nueil  is  very  curious],  she 
stumbled  into  the  gap  which  was  between  the 
table  and  the  easy-chair.  Without  seeming  in 
the  least  upset  by  the  incident,  she  rose  and 


190  BALZAC 

returned  the  young  man's  bow,  but  in  a 
scarcely  perceptible  way,  hardly  rising  from 
the  seat  in  which  her  body  remained  sunken. 
She  bent  forward,  quickly  poked  the  fire,  and 
then,  stooping  down,  picked  up  her  glove, 
which  she  negligently  put  on  her  left  hand, 
looking  about  for  the  other  with  a  glance  which 
she  promptly  repressed ;  for  with  her  right 
hand,  so  white,  ringless,  delicate,  with  tapering 
fingers,  the  pink  nails  forming  perfect  ovals, 
she  indicated  a  chair  as  though  bidding  Gaston 
to  sit  down.  When  her  unknown  guest  was 
seated,  she  turned  her  head  towards  him  with 
an  interrogatory  and  coquettish  movement, 
the  fineness  of  which  cannot  be  described ; 
it  was  compact  of  those  benevolent  intentions, 
those  gestures  at  once  gracious  and  defined, 
which  early  upbringing  and  constant  familiarity 
with  tasteful  things  can  alone  bestow.  These 
manifold  movements  succeeded  one  another 
rapidly  in  one  moment,  in  perfect  suavity  devoid 
of  all  haste,  and  charmed  Gaston  by  that 
mingling  of  carefulness  and  easy  frankness 
which  a  beautiful  woman  adds  to  the  aristo- 
cratic bearing  of  high  rank.' 

All  of  which  means  no  more  than  that  Gaston 
has  been  taken  in  by  the  pretty  looks  and 


HIS  TASTE  191 

gestures  and  the  affected  behaviour  of  a 
provincial  actress  playing  le  Caprice. 

A  few  moments  later,  Mme.  de  Beauseant 
having  shown  him  the  door  (and  with  very 
good  reason),  Gaston,  after  having  gone  as  far 
as  the  vestibule,  comes  back  quietly  and  says 
to  her  :  '  "  Jacques  lighted  the  way  for  me." 
And  his  smile,  imbued  with  a  half  melancholy 
grace,  robbed  the  phrase  of  all  that  was  jocular, 
and  the  tone  in  which  he  uttered  it  was  enough 
to  move  the  soul.  Mme.  de  Beauseant  was 
disarmed.' 

Well,  she  was  very  easily  overcome  then. 

4  "  Madam,"  cried  Gaston  softly,  "  you  know 
my  fault,  but  you  are  ignorant  of  my  crimes ; 
if  you  only  knew  what  happiness  I  ..." 
"  Ah  !  beware,"  she  said,  lifting  up  one  of  her 
fingers  with  a  mysterious  air  to  the  level  of  her 
nose  which  she  skimmed,  while  with  the  other 
hand  she  made  a  gesture  as  though  to  reach  for 
the  bell-pull.  .  .  .' 

A  little  farther  on  :  '.  .  .  The  viscountess 
raised  her  beautiful  eyes  to  the  cornice,  to 
which  she  no  doubt  confided  everything  that 
a  stranger  may  not  hear.  A  cornice  is  quite 
the  gentlest,  the  most  submissive,  and  the 
kindest  confidante  a  woman  can  find  on  occa- 


192  BALZAC 

sions  when  she  dare  not  look  at  her  inter- 
locutor. The  boudoir  cornice  is  an  institution. 
Is  it  not  a  confessional  without  the  priest  ? 
At  this  moment  Mme.  de  Beauseant  was  full 
of  eloquence  and  beauty.  .  .  .' 

Balzac's  ineffable  ineptitude  in  describing 
society  women  has  been  denied.  Brunetiere, 
in  his  otherwise  admirable  book  entitled 
Honore  de  Balzac,  wrote  as  follows,  very 
evidently  aiming  a  shaft  at  myself  :  '  I  do  not 
agree  with  the  statement  [that  he  is  coarse  and 
vulgar]  in  describing  upper-class  people,  great 
lords  and  ladies.  Sainte-Beuve,  who  lived  at 
the  same  time  and  moved  in  the  same  circles, 
vouches  for  their  truth  to  life  :  "  Who,"  says 
he,  "  better  than  Balzac  has  more  delightfully 
painted  the  veterans  and  the  beauties  of  the 
Empire  ?  Who  especially  more  delightfully 
touched  in  the  duchesses  and  the  viscountesses  of 
the  latter  restoration  ?"  I  prefer  the  testimony  of 
Sainte-Beuve,  who  knew  in  their  decline  some 
of  those  "  viscountesses  "  and  "  duchesses," 
such  as  Mme.  de  Beauseant  or  Mme.  de  Lan- 
geais,  to  the  opinion  of  some  honest  university 
people  1  who  do  not  recognise  in  those  ladies 
their  ideal  as  regards  elegance,  distinction,  and 

1  M.  Faguet  being  professor  at  the  Sorbonne. — TR. 


HIS  TASTE  193 

aristocracy.  .  .  .'  Sainte-Beuve  is  surely  a 
very  bourgeois  surety,  and  I  would  point  out 
that  the  duchesses  and  viscountesses  at  the  end 
of  the  Restoration  were  known  neither  to 
Sainte-Beuve  nor  to  Balzac,  the  former  only 
having  begun  to  frequent  aristocratic  drawing- 
rooms  in  1840,  and  Balzac,  in  spite  of  his  very 
short  liaison  with  Mme.  de  Castries,  having 
become  a  regular  attendant  only  a  few  months 
before  that  date.  Nay,  Sainte-Beuve  himself 
has  told  us  that  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain 
was  absolutely  closed  to  men  of  letters  before  1830, 
and  since  it  had  to  spend  a  few  years  getting 
used  to  their  admittance,  we  must  conclude 
that  Sainte-Beuve's  testimony  is  not  valid  as 
regards  the  great  ladies  of  the  Restoration, 
even  at  the  end  of  it. 

And  I  would  point  out  above  all  that  Sainte- 
Beuve  being  himself  rather  '  vulgar '  where 
women  were  concerned,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
his  is  hardly  the  testimony  that  should  be 
sought  on  such  a  point ;  and  he  may  very 
well  have  seen  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain 
under  Louis  Philippe  exactly  as  Balzac  did, 
without  that  proving  that  either  of  them  saw 
it  as  it  really  was. 

But  I  admit  that  it  makes  us  a  little  uneasy 


194  BALZAC 

as  to  what  this  noble  neighbourhood  was  like 
toward  1840,  that  Balzac  should  have  seen  it 
as  he  has  painted,  and  that  Sainte-Beuve 
should  deem  him  to  have  seen  them  rightly 
and  to  have  c  touched  them  in  delightfully.' 
And  yet,  from  the  little  I  saw  of  that  world, 
I  have  still  a  doubt,  in  judging  from  their 
grandchildren,  of  the  Tightness  of  the  vision 
of  those  two  observers  of  their  grandmothers. 
No,  I  do  not  think  that  the  dukes  and  duch- 
esses of  Balzac's  time  were,  as  regards  speech 
and  gesture,  quite  such  unusual  persons  as  we 
have  seen  him  setting  before  us. 


HIS  STYLE  195 


VII 

HIS    STYLE 

EVERYBODY  agrees  that  Balzac  wrote  badly. 
There  is  no  need  to  rectify  opinion  on  that 
point.  He  wrote  badly. 

But  it  sometimes  happens,  indeed  often 
enough,  that  this  passes  unnoticed,  and  that 
in  three  cases. 

First  of  all  in  his  portraits.  Not  only  did 
Balzac  make  portraits,  above  all  physical 
portraits,  wonderfully  well,  with  a  sure  selec- 
tion of  significant  traits ;  but  when  he  made 
them,  his  style  itself,  his  skill,  and  his  language 
too,  could  hardly  be  bettered.  I  would  refer 
to  the  portraits  quoted  in  the  middle  of  this 
book.  The  reader  will  no  doubt  consider  that 
even  there  the  sentence  concerning  M.  Poiret's 
overcoat — c .  .  .  the  faded  lappets  of  his  over- 
coat floating  loose  and  ill  concealing  almost 
empty  breeches  and  blue-hosed  spindle-shanks 
that  shook  like  a  drunkard's,  and  showing  his 
dingy  white  waistcoat  and  his  coarse  crumpled 


196  BALZAC 

muslin  shirt-frill  that  matched  but  ill  with  the 
black  tie  round  his  scraggy  turkey  neck ' — is  a 
dreadfully  tangled  sentence  which  has  this  sole 
excuse — against  which,  however,  much  may  be 
urged — that  it  gives  an  idea  of  the  good  man's 
careless  get-up,  and  you  will  no  doubt  find  it 
to  be  so ;  but  read  once  again  all  the  other 
portraits  quoted,  and  you  will  see  that  the 
sharpness  of  the  style  corresponds  exactly  to 
the  clearness  of  the  author's  vision.  Balzac's 
portraits  are  as  a  rule  very  well  written,  and 
they  are  those  moreover  of  a  master-hand. 

He  also  writes  very  well  when  he  neither 
thinks  of  it  nor  takes  any  pains  to  do  so.  It 
sometimes  happens  that  Balzac,  spurred  on 
no  doubt  by  his  interest  in  his  subject,  goes 
straight  ahead  without  troubling  his  head  about 
the  Academic  Frangaise,  and  merely  thinking 
of  the  facts  he  is  relating.  In  that  case  he 
has  neither  qualities  nor  defects.  He  makes 
himself  understood,  he  is  readable,  that  is  all. 
He  does  not  think  of  writing  well,  nor  do  we 
dream  of  asking  him  to  do  so.  Nobody  ever 
thinks  of  giving  careful  examination  to  a  col- 
lection of  fails  divers.  He  ought  always  to 
have  written  like  that.  There  is  an  example 
of  this  neutral  style  in  which,  while  being  all 


HIS  STYLE  197 

that  I  have  said,  he  still  allows  himself  a  little 
furtive  elegance  :  4  Exchanging  a  few  words 
with  his  cousin  on  the  brink  of  the  well,  remain- 
ing seated  on  the  bench  in  the  little  garden 
until  sundown,  busy  telling  each  other  their 
soaring  dreams  or  musing  amidst  the  calm  that 
reigned  between  the  rampart  and  the  house, 
just  as  one  might  under  the  vaulted  roofing  of 
a  church,  Charles  realised  all  the  holiness  of 
love  ;  for  his  great  lady,  his  beloved  Annette, 
had  taught  him  nothing  but  stormy  unrest. 
He  was  not  getting  rid  of  his  coquettish,  vain, 
and  blazing  Parisian  passion,  and  giving  place 
to  pure  and  true  love.  He  loved  this  house 
of  which  the  customs  no  longer  seemed  to  him 
quite  so  ridiculous.  He  came  down  early  in 
order  to  steal  a  few  minutes'  talk  with  Eugenie, 
before  old  Grandet  came  to  dole  out  the  pro- 
visions, and  when  the  old  man's  footsteps 
echoed  on  the  stairs,  he  would  sneak  off  into 
the  garden.  The  slight  guiltiness  of  that  early 
meeting,  kept  secret  even  from  Eugenie's 
mother,  and  of  which  Nanon  pretended  to  be 
unaware,  gave  to  the  most  innocent  love  in 
the  world  the  attraction  of  a  forbidden  pleasure. 
And  then,  breakfast  being  over,  and  old  Grandet 
gone  to  make  the  round  of  his  estate  and  farm- 


198  BALZAC 

land,  Charles  remained  between  the  mother  and 
daughter,  experiencing  unknown  delights  in 
lending  his  hands  for  unwinding  the  skein,  in 
watching  them  at  work,  in  listening  to  their 
babble.  The  simplicity  of  that  cloistral  life, 
revealing  to  him  the  beauty  of  those  souls  to 
whom  the  outside  world  was  unknown,  touched 
him  deeply.  .  .  .' 

Here  is  another  example,  this  time  a  land- 
scape ;  and  landscapes  are  very  rare  in  Balzac. 
You  see  plainly  that,  along  with  Stendhal, 
what  he  kept  a  look-out  for  on  his  journeys 
was  houses  and  men.  But  in  1831,  the  date 
when  he  wrote  the  first  part  of  la  Femme  de 
trente  Ans,  writers  had  '  to  sketch  in  landscapes,' 
under  pain  of  passing  for  nothing  as  men  of 
letters.  Balzac  sketches  in  the  following  one, 
simple,  sober  enough,  and  most  accurate  (for 
it  was  the  description  of  places  he  had  seen  a 
hundred  times),  and  which  he  makes  the  reader 
see  quite  plainly,  written  in  quite  a  praise- 
worthy style  :  '  From  Vouvray  to  Tours  the 
amazing  sinuosities  of  this  jagged  slope  are 
inhabited  by  a  population  of  vine-growers. 
In  many  places  there  are  three  ledges  of  houses 
one  above  the  other,  hewn  out  of  the  rock,  and 
linked  together  by  dangerous  steps  cut  in  the 


HIS  STYLE  199 

stone  itself ;  on  the  level  with  a  roof  a  young 
girl  with  a  red  skirt  runs  out  to  her  garden. 
The  smoke  of  a  chimney  ascends  between  the 
shoots  and  leafage  of  the  vine.  Farmers  are 
busy  ploughing  perpendicular  fields.  An  old 
woman,  quietly  seated  on  a  fragment  of  fallen 
boulder,  turns  her  spinning-wheel  under  the 
almond-blossom  and  watches  the  travellers 
below  her  with  amusement  at  their  fright. 
She  worries  no  more  about  the  fissures  in  the 
ground  than  about  the  impending  downfall  of 
an  old  wall  the  layers  of  which  are  now  hardly 
held  together  by  the  tortuous  roots  of  ivy  that 
spreads  like  a  live  carpet  over  the  disjointed 
stones  of  the  ancient  rampart.  The  cooper's 
hammer  makes  the  vaults  of  the  lofty  caves 
resound.  The  ground  is  tilled  and  teeming 
everywhere,  even  where  Nature  has  refused 
soil  for  human  industry.  The  threefold 
picture  of  this  scene  of  which  we  have  hardly 
indicated  the  aspect  brought  to  the  soul  one 
of  those  sights  that  remain  for  ever  engraved 
on  the  memory  ;  and  when  a  poet  had  enjoyed 
it,  his  dream  came  back  again  and  again  to  rear 
anew  its  romantic  effects  in  his  mind.  At  the 
moment  when  the  carriage  reached  the  bridge 
over  the  Cisse,  several  white  sails  surged  up 


200  BALZAC 

between  the  islets  of  the  Loire,  and  gave  an 
added  harmony  to  that  harmonious  scene. 
The  redolence  of  the  willow-trees  that  lined  the 
stream  added  its  penetrating  scent  to  those  of 
the  humid  breeze  ;  the  birds  warbled  in  amor- 
ous concert,  the  monotonous  song  of  the  goat- 
herd joined  in  with  its  wild  melancholy,  whilst 
the  shouts  of  the  bargemen  told  of  distant 
traffic  astir.  Soft  mists  capriciously  hovering 
over  the  scattered  trees  in  that  vast  landscape 
gave  it  a  final  grace.  It  was  Touraine  in  all 
its  glory,  springtide  in  all  its  splendour.  That 
part  of  France,  the  only  one  which  foreign 
armies  were  not  to  disturb,  was  at  that  moment 
the  only  one  to  be  quiet,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
it  defied  invasion.' 

And  last  of  all,  he  happens  to  set  a  care- 
taker or  a  tinker  talking.  Then  he  is  wonder- 
ful. I  am  not  now  joking.  He  is  wonderful 
as  regards  faithfulness,  accuracy,  and  truth. 
You  may  think  M.  Pons'  caretaker's  chatter 
too  long ;  but  you  must  own  that  it  is  reality 
itself.  It  is  not  a  parody,  it  is  not  an  equival- 
ent ;  it  is  simple  truth ;  it  is  just  a  vulgar  Paris 
woman  whom  you  hear. 

These  are  the  three  cases  in  which  by  happy 
accident  Balzac  happens  to  write  well.  Every- 


HIS  STYLE  201 

where  else  his  style  is  painful.  I  suppose  I  have 
said  quite  enough  of  the  way  in  which  he  makes 
his  upper-class  people  talk.  I  only  refer  to  it 
to  point  out  that  if  they  seem  to  us  so  false,  it 
is  at  least  the  author's  fault  quite  as  much  as 
the  reader's.  Having  the  same  feelings,  but 
expressing  them  in  language  proper  to  their 
condition,  they  would  seem  to  be  men  of 
fashion  hardly  worthy  of  their  status,  but  still 
men  of  fashion.  Yet  it  must  be  remembered 
that  men  of  this  class  are  so  readily  and  surely 
recognised  by  their  way  of  talking,  that  a  fault  of 
style  implies  a  flaw  in  the  manners  as  a  whole. 
When  he  speaks  on  his  own  account,  in  his 
narratives,  reflections,  dissertations,  analyses, 
even  very  often  in  his  descriptions,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  say  how  bad  he  is.  He  talks  like  a 
mischievous  wag  bent  on  aping  the  romantic. 
He  can  write  :  '  A  thing  worthy  of  notice  is 
the  power  of  infusion  which  the  feelings 
possess.  .  .  .'  He  will  indulge  in  the  vulgar 
and  affected  metaphors  of  provincial  wits : 
4  The  next  morning  the  post  poured  into  two 
hearts  the  poison  of  two  anonymous  letters.' 
— 4  The  benefactress  dipped  the  bread  of  the 
exile  into  the  absinthe  of  reproach.'  'If 
the  season  during  which  a  woman  struggles 


202  BALZAC 

against  love's  onset  offered  to  Rastignac  the 
spoil  of  its  first-fruits,  they  became  to  him  as 
costly  as  they  were  green,  acrid,  and  delicious 
of  savour.' 

His  metaphors  are  bewildering  :  '  Such  is 
Algeria  as  regards  victualling.  A  hash 
flavoured  with  the  ink-bottle  of  all  rising 
administrations . ' 

He  makes  most  enigmatic  distinctions  be- 
tween the  meanings  of  words  :  '  Julie  listened 
to  her  aunt  with  as  much  astonishment  as 
stupefaction.  .  .  .'  You  wonder  why  he 
seems  to  consider  astonishment  and  stupe- 
faction as  different  feelings ;  it  is  because  he 
fancies  stupefaction  means  dread :  ' .  .  .  sur- 
prised at  hearing  words  the  wisdom  of  which 
was  rather  foreboded  than  understood  by  her, 
and  startled  on  hearing  once  more  uttered  by  a 
relative  the  sentence  already  passed  on  Victor 
by  her  father.' 

The  very  meaning  of  words  often  escapes 
him  and  makes  him  utter  unheard-of  things. 
Why  is  the  love  of  a  woman  of  thirty  more 
flattering  to  a  young  man  than  that  of  a  young 
girl  ?  Because  4  whereas  one  may  be  led  on 
by  curiosity  or  by  seductions  other  than  those 
of  real  love,  the  other  obeys  a  conscientious 


HIS  STYLE  203 

feeling.'  He  meant  to  say  conscious  ;  and  the 
thing  he  says  instead  is  the  most  comical  in 
the  world. 

In  the  same  way  Baron  Hulot,  who  belongs 
to  the  class  that  knows  how  to  speak  cor- 
rectly, says  to  a  young  artist,  '  Come  along, 
sir,  life  may  turn  out  well  for  you.  You 
will  soon  discover  that  no  one  can  stay  long 
in  Paris  with  impunity  if  he  has  talent.'  He 
meant  to  say  unrewarded,  and  says  just  the 
opposite. 

'  After  having  espoused  for  a  time  a  life 
similar  to  that  of  a  squirrel  spinning  round  in 
its  cage,  he  felt  the  lack  of  opposition[?]  in  a 
life  where  everything  was  fore-ordained.  .  .  .' 

'  You  must  have  climbed  up  all  the  chimeras 
with  their  double  white  wings  who  offer  their 
feminine  backs  to  glowing  imaginations  in 
order  to  understand  the  torture  which  preyed 
on  Gaston  de  Nueil.' 

4  The  humanity  of  a  courtesan  in  love  begets 
such  magnificence  as  might  put  even  the  angels 
to  shame.' 

4  The  public  admires  the  witty  work  of  this 
handful  of  men  and  sees  no  harm  in  it ;  it  does 
not  realise  that  the  sharp  blade  of  cutting 
words  athirst  for  vengeance  dabbles  in  self- 


204  BALZAC 

love  skilfully  probed,  and  bleeding  from  a 
thousand  thrusts.' 

4  Providence  has  also  doubtlessly  strongly 
protected  the  families  of  employees  and  the 
lower  classes  for  whom  these  hindrances  are 
at  least  doubled  by  the  environment  in  which 
they  accomplish  their  evolution.' 

4  To  win  the  favours  of  Mme.  Marneffe  was 
for  him  not  merely  the  eagerness  of  his  chimera, 
but  also  a  matter  of  money.' 

The  very  parts  which  we  must  admit  are 
best  written  in  his  work  abound  in  those 
faults  which  are  characteristic  of  all  de- 
cline :  profusion,  superabundance,  tinsel, 
varnish,  false  similes  and  metaphors,  things 
claiming  to  be  things  seen  which  have  no 
precision. 

' ...  At  the  bottom  of  the  wide-necked  china 
vase  fancy  to  yourself  a  wide  margin  composed 
wholly  of  those  white  tufts  peculiar  to  the 
sedum  of  the  Touraine  vines  :  vague  images 
of  desired  forms,  surging  up  like  those  of  an 
obedient  slave.  From  this  ledge  come  forth 
spirals  of  the  bindweed  with  its  white  bells, 
sprays  of  the  pink  rest-harrow  mixed  with 
fronds  of  fern,  a  few  oak  twigs  with  magnifi- 
cently tinted  and  glossy  leaves,  all  of  them 


HIS  STYLE  205 

sweeping  in  prostrate  obeisance  like  weeping 
willows,  shy  and  suppliant  like  prayers.  Above 
them  behold  loosened  fibrils,  all  flowery  and 
incessantly  athrill,  of  the  purple  quaking-grass, 
which  pours  down  a  flood  of  yellowy  anthers ; 
snowy  pyramids  of  the  meadow  and  pond 
grasses,  the  green  hair  of  the  barren  bent-grass, 
the  ruffled  plumes  of  that  wild  grass  known  as 
wind's-eye,  violet-tinted  as  the  hopes  that 
crown  our  early  dreams,  standing  out  against 
the  flaxen-grey  background  where  the  light 
radiates  all  about  these  flowering  herbs.  But 
higher  still  are  a  few  Bengal  roses  scattered 
among  the  wild  fringes  of  the  daucus,  the  tufts 
of  the  toad-flax,  the  plumy  wand  of  the 
meadowsweet,  the  umbels  of  the  wild  chervil, 
the  fair  locks  of  the  clematis  in  seed,  the  tiny 
cressets  of  the  milk-white  stitch  wort,  the 
clusters  of  the  milfoil,  the  diffuse  stems  of  the 
fumitory  with  its  pink  and  black  flowers,  the 
tangled  twigs  of  the  honeysuckle ;  in  short 
all  that  these  simple  beings  have  of  the  utmost 
wildness  and  dishevelling,  of  flames  and  of 
triple  darts,  of  ribbed  leaves  or  of  dentate  ones, 
or  of  stems  twisted  about  like  vague  desires 
entwined  in  the  depth  of  the  soul.  From  the 
heart  of  that  over-brimming  torrent  of  love 


206  BALZAC 

there  surges  a  magnificent  double  red  poppy 
with  its  pods  all  ready  to  burst  open,  scattering 
the  sparks  of  its  fire  above  the  starry  jasmine, 
and  towering  over  the  ceaseless  rain  of  pollen 
dust,  a  lovely  mist  which  twinkles  in  the  air, 
reflecting  the  daylight  in  a  myriad  shining 
particles.  What  woman  intoxicated  by  the 
aphrodite-like  redolence  hidden  in  all  this  forage 
could  fail  to  feel  this  luxury  of  yielding  ideas, 
this  white  tenderness  stirred  by  unbridled 
movements  and  this  red  desire  of  love  which 
longs  for  a  happiness  denied  in  those  onsets, 
a  hundred  times  renewed,  of  a  passion  still 
unspent,  indefatigable,  and  eternal  ?  Was  not 
everything  that  can  be  offered  up  to  God  offered 
up  to  love  in  this  poem  of  luminous  flowers 
that  wooed  the  heart  with  its  unceasing 
melody,  fondling  its  secret  voluptuousness,  its 
unspoken  yearnings,  its  illusions  that  were 
kindled  or  waned  out  like  gossamer  threads  on 
a  warm  night  ?  ' 

No  doubt  that  is  a  very  brilliant  piece  of 
composition.  But  still,  it  is  the  description  of 
a  handful  of  flowers.  Now  where  is  the  wide- 
necked  vase,  the  huge  jar  that  could  hold  such 
a  crowd,  such  a  multitude  of  stems  as  compose 
it  ?  It  is  not  a  bouquet,  it  is  a  forest ;  it  is 


HIS  STYLE  207 

not  a  bouquet,  it  is  a  Paradon.1  Moreover 
(and  partly  for  that  reason,  though  for  others 
as  well),  it  cannot  be  seen ;  it  is  terribly  con- 
fused :  between  the  margin  of  white  tufts  and 
the  double  red  poppy  (this  being  quite  clear 
and  of  some  value)  it  cannot  be  seen  at  all. 
You  hear  all  about  it.  You  hear  a  clatter  of 
strange  and  unusual  names  (in  the  style  of 
Victor  Hugo)  that  tickle  the  ear ;  but  that  is 
not  what  is  wanted ;  you  want  to  see  it.  If 
you  look  closely  into  it  you  find  some  most 
singular  things.  For  example,  whom  have 
ferns  or  oak  leaves  ever  impressed  as  being 
prostrate,  or  like  weeping  willows,  or  humble 
prayers  ?  I  should  rather  think  the  impression 
made  is  quite  the  contrary.  *  Violet-tinted  as 
the  hopes  that  crown  our  early  dreams,'  though 
rather  affected,  seems  to  me  quite  right ;  but 
in  what  he  enumerates — read  it  again — where 
does  that  flaxen-grey  background  come  in, 
that  background  against  which  the  bent-grass 
stands  out,  and  how  can  light,  if  it  exist  at  all, 
irradiate  it  instead  of  softening  ?  I  defy  a 
painter  with  his  brush.  '  Stems  twisted  about 
like  vague  desires  entwined  in  the  depth 
of  the  soul '  is,  in  my  opinion,  excellent ;  but 

1  Paradon  =  a  paradise  of  flowers.    Cf.  Daudet's  Tartarin. — TH. 


208  BALZAC 

above  flowers  gathered  up  into  a  posy  and  stand- 
ing still,  and  far  from  the  breeze,  pollen  does 
not  hover  at  all ;  and  I  know  not  how  it  comes 
about  that  gossamer  threads  take  fire  and  die 
out  in  turn  on  a  warm  night.  The  effect  as  a 
whole  is  chaotic,  and  half  of  it  is  wrong. 

It  is  well  worthy  of  attention,  as  it  is  one  of 
the  few  cases  in  which  Balzac  (who  as  a  rule 
writes  all  the  worse  whenever  he  makes  an 
effort  to  write  well)  did  not  fail,  all  things  con- 
sidered, in  spite  of  his  taking  pains  ;  but  it 
deserves  only  guarded  approval. 

And  notice  how  infectious  is  impropriety  of 
style ;  for  Taine,  who  admired  this  passage, 
says  that  in  reading  it  4  all  the  voluptuousness 
of  summer  penetrates  the  senses  and  the  heart 
like  a  tumultuous  swarm  of  motley  butterflies,' 
when  the  swarm  of  butterflies  is  never  tumultu- 
ous (even  laying  aside  the  suggestion  of  noise 
which  the  word  conveys),  and  it  always  con- 
veys something  of  soft  and  harmonious  sinu- 
-osity.  At  bottom  this  page  of  Balzac,  which 
is  famous,  and  after  all  deserves  to  be  so,  is 
not  wholly  balderdash,  though  it  has  a  good 
deal  of  it. 

And  nearly  the  whole  of  le  Lys  dans  la 
Vallee  likewise  is  a  prodigy  of  bombast  and 


HIS  STYLE  209 

bathos,  just  as  though  written  by  some  one 
who  was  straining  himself  to  write  as  badly  as 
possible.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  its  bad- 
ness is  so  obviously  the  outcome  of  high-flown 
style.  This  is  how  he  starts  out  when  he 
wants  to  speak  with  the  tongue  of  Chateau- 
briand :  '  To  what  talent  nourished  on  tears 
shall  we  some  day  owe  the  most  touching  elegy, 
the  drawing  of  torments  borne  in  silence  by 
souls  whose  roots,  still  tender,  strike  only 
against  hard  stones  in  the  domestic  soil,  whose 
first  shy  buds  are  torn  off  by  malignant  hands, 
whose  flowers  are  nipped  by  the  frost  just  as 
they  are  about  to  unfold  ?  What  poet  will 
render  for  us  articulate  the  sufferings  of  a 
child  whose  lips  suck  at  a  bitter  breast,  and 
whose  smiles  wither  in  the  scorching  glances 
of  a  stern  eye.  .  .  .'  And  throughout  the 
whole  book,  just  as  though  he  were  busied  with 
the  painting  of  religious  souls,  there  is  a  pro- 
fusion of  biblical  metaphors,  of  '  perfumes  of 
Magdalen,'  of  '  stars  of  the  Magi,'  of  '  Isaiah's 
burning  coal,'  which  often  borders  on  the 
burlesque.  I  know  of  two  parodies  of  this 
turgid  and  chilly  emphatic  style,  and  they  are 
the  travel  impressions  of  the  avalanche  man 
in  Topffer's  Mont  Saint-Bernard,  and  the  con- 

o 


210  BALZAC 

versation  of  Rodolphe  and  Mme.  Bovary 
during  the  solemnity  of  the  agricultural  board 
meeting.  Both  are  inferior  to  their  model. 

He  himself  needed  a  model  in  order  to  write 
properly,  but  a  model  in  keeping  with  his 
nature  which  was  neither  fine  nor  distinguished. 
He  was  very  apt  at  copying  (as  I  have  already 
pointed  out)  the  language  of  common  people, 
and  he  imitated  happily  enough,  though 
uneasily,  the  style  of  the  jolly  story-tellers  of 
the  sixteenth  century.  Though  I  am  well 
aware  of  how  much  a  philological  student  of 
that  period  could  point  out  as  to  the  a  peu  pres 
in  the  Contes  drolatiques,  still  the  general  effect 
of  the  whole  is  good,  and  as  far  as  that  goes, 
the  patchwork  imitation  is  most  successful. 
The  vulgar  scenes  and  the  Contes  drolatiques 
are  the  only  parts  of  his  work  which,  after  all 
reckoning  has  been  made,  are  really  worth 
much  considered  as  style. 

He  said :  '  There  are  only  Victor  Hugo, 
Gautier,  and  myself  who  know  the  language 
thoroughly.'  Unfortunately  there  is  one  name 
too  many  in  the  list,  for  even  as  regards  material 
accuracy  Balzac  is  often  at  fault.  It  is  not 
that  he  does  not  know  a  great  deal  of  the 
language,  and  that  of  the  best.  Notice  his 


HIS  STYLE  211 

excellent  archaisms.  He  can  say  '  arraisonner 
quelqu'un ' ;  he  can  say  '  emboiter  quelqu'un  ' 
(to  hoodwink  him  by  coaxing) ;  he  can  say 
4  se  battre  de  la  chape  a  1'eveque  '  (to  fight  for 
something  which  is  not  yours) ;  and  I  might 
multiply  these  examples  ;  but,  side  by  side 
with  all  this,  he  falls  into  the  most  common- 
place and  vulgar  blunders. 

He  can  say  4  un  petit  office,'  and,  to  be  sure, 
it  is  what  ought  to  be  said  ;  but  still  it  is  a  good 
many  hundred  years  since  anybody  said  it. 
He  can  say  '  II  n'est  pas  de  femme  qui  .  .  . 
ne  con9oive  une  de  ces  reflexions.'  Or  again, 
4  En  accordant  a  un  etranger  le  droit  d'entrer 
dans  le  sanctuaire  du  menage,  n'est-ce  pas  se 
mettre  a  sa  merci  ?  '  is  a  sentence  of  which 
the  syntax  is  absolutely  impossible.  c  Elle 
conduisait  [for  gouvernait,  but  that  may  pass] 
les  ouvriers  et  jouissait  ainsi  dans  1'atelier  d'une 
espece  de  suprematie  qui  la  sortait  un  pen  de 
la  classe  des  grisettes.' — '  M.  Portel  ceint  d'un 
tablier  de  preparateur,  une  cornue  a  la  main, 
examinait  un  produit  chimique  tout  en  rejetant 
Vceil  sur  sa  boutique.  .  .  .' — *  L'imprimeur 
jugea  sans  doute  ces  graves  paroles  necessaires, 
1'influence  de  Mme.  de  Bargeton  ne  1'epouvan- 
tant  pas  moins  que  la  funeste  mobilite  de  carac- 


212  BALZAC 

tere  qui  pouvait  tout  aussi  bien  Jeter  Lucien 
dans  une  mauvaise  comme  dans  une  bonne 
voie.' — '.  .  .  Car  alors  nous  ne  nous  quitterons 
pas  aujourd'hui,  repondit-il  avec  la  finesse  du 
pretre  qui  voit  sa  malice  reussie? — '  Ce  nouvel 
Art  d'aimer  consomme  enormement  de  paroles 
evangeliques  a  1'oeuvre  du  Diable.' — '  Sous  la 
Restoration  la  noblesse  s'est  tou jours  sou- 
venue  d'avoir  ete  battue,  aussi,  mettant  a  part 
deux  ou  trois  exceptions,  est-elle  devenue  eco- 
nome.  .  .  .'  Do  you  understand  this  nobility 
that  puts  aside  two  or  three  exceptions  ?  He 
means  to  say,  c  So,  apart  from  some  excep- 
tions. .  .  .' — c  Une  vraie  courtisane  .  .  .  porte 
dans  la  franchise  de  sa  situation  un  avertisse- 
ment  aussi  lumineux  que  la  lanterne  rouge  de 
la  prostitution  ou  que  les  quinquets  des  trente 
et  quarante.  Un  homme  sait  alors  qu'il  s'en 
va  la  de  sa  mine,'  and  so  on.  I  have  picked 
out  these  instances  of  material  inaccuracy  from 
three  books  only. 

This  style  singularly  astonished  and  seemed 
to  upset  Sainte-Beuve.  In  his  memorial  article, 
dated  2nd  September  1850  (and  let  us  not 
forget  that  it  is  the  sort  of  article  in  which  the 
tendency  is  to  judge  as  favourably  as  may  be, 
nor  that  Sainte-Beuve  did  his  best  to  judge 


HIS  STYLE  213 

fairly  and  without  spite),  he  says  :  *  What  I 
like  in  his  style,  in  its  delicate  parts,  is  its 
efflorescence  (I  do  not  know  where  to  find  a 
better  word),  by  which  he  gives  everything 
the  feeling  of  life,  and  sets  the  very  page 
athrill.  But  I  cannot  welcome,  under  the 
cloak  of  physiology,  the  continual  abuse  of 
this  quality,  this  style  so  often  chatouilleux 
and  melting,  enervated,  roseate,  and  shot 
through  with  every  tint,  this  style  of  delicious 
and  quite  Asiatic  corruption,  as  our  masters 
used  to  say,  more  broken  in  places  and  more 
flabby  than  the  body  of  an  antique  mummer.1 
Does  not  Petronius,  amidst  the  scenes  which  he 
describes,  regret  somewhere  or  other  what  he 


*  I  crave  the  reader's  pardon,  though  it  will  hardly  be  accorded 
me,  but  I  cannot  forbear  remarking  in  smaller  type,  that  is  to  say 
half  aloud,  how  often  the  best  of  the  nineteenth-century  stylists 
indulge  in  haphazard  expressions  that  are  ambiguous  and  often 
either  of  questionable  fitness  or  wholly  out  of  place.  An 
efflorescence  is  ring-worm,  or  a  rudimentary  and  imperfect  blossom- 
ing, and  it  is  just  the  contrary  of  what  Balzac  meant  to  say,  and 
he  ought  to  have  said  floraison.  Balzac  with  his  efflorescence  gives 
everything  the  feeling  of  life?  Well,  no  !  Either  he  gives  every- 
thing feeling  or  he  gives  everything  life,  or  he  gives  everything 
feeling  and  life  ;  but  he  cannot  give  them  the  feeling  of  life,  for 
you  give  things  either  feeling  or  life  ;  but  you  can  only  give  the 
feeling  of  life  to  persons.  Chatouilleux  means  what  is  sensitive  to 
tickling,  and  we  cannot  conceive  a  style  of  such  susceptibility,  and 
chatouillant  was  the  right  word.  I  admit  that,  save  for  these  three 
slips,  the  whole  passage  is  that  of  a  master-hand. 


214  BALZAC 

calls  oratio  pudica,  the  bashful  style,  which 
does  not  yield  to  the  fluidity  of  every  gesture  ?  ' 
This  portrait  of  Balzac's  style,  for  a  portrait 
it  is,  is  very  curious,  and  it  is  difficult  to  recog- 
nise in  that  too  supple  mummer  the  square- 
built  weight  of  Balzac  and  his  style,  and  (as 
I  believe  Brunetiere  has  remarked)  this  very 
pretty  description  would  more  fitly  describe 
the  style  of  Sainte-Beuve  himself.  But,  all 
things  considered,  it  is  praise,  grudging  praise, 
but  still  praise,  since  the  impression  we  get 
from  it  is  that  Balzac  has  a  style  similar  to 
that  of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  in  his  romantic 
or  confidential  works  ;  it  is,  in  short,  praise. 

But,  as  you  expect  with  Sainte-Beuve,  who 
proceeds  by  continual  touching  and  retouching, 
taking  back  with  one  hand  what  the  other  has 
just  granted,  six  pages  later  he  retraces  his 
steps,  and  coming  back  to  the  question  of  style, 
as  though  he  had  said  nothing  about  it,  he  says  : 
'  As  for  the  style,  it  is  fine,  subtle,  fluent,  pictur- 
esque, without  the  least  analogy  with  tradition. 
[Quite  right.]  I  have  sometimes  wondered 
what  effect  one  of  M.  de  Balzac's  books  would 
produce  on  an  honest  mind,  hitherto  nourished 
on  good  French  prose  in  all  its  frugality,  on  a 
mind  such  as  exists  no  longer,  trained  up  on 


HIS  STYLE  215 

readings  from  Nicole  and  Bourdaloue,1  on  that 
simple,  steady,  and  scrupulous  style  which  goes 
far,  as  La  Bruyere  puts  it.  Such  a  mind  would 
feel  giddy  for  a  whole  month  afterwards.'  I 
do  not  know,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  M.  Sainte- 
Beuve  actually  here  throws  out  a  straight  hint 
that  M.  de  Balzac  wrote  balderdash.  And  later 
on  (Causeries  du  Lundi  (vol.  iv.),  Histoire  de  la 
Restauration),  returning  once  more,  most  fur- 
tively, to  this  topic,  see  how  Sainte-Beuve, 
under  pretence  of  talking  about  Lamartine's 
style,  points  out  that  Balzac's  is  compact  of 
over-strained,  exaggerated,  and  incoherent  meta- 
phors. '  M.  de  Lamartine  yielded  rather  too 
much  to  his  new  prose  style,  in  which  Balzac 
goes  for  a  great  deal  more  than  Tacitus.  "  The 
Empire  had  grown  old  before  its  time  :  satis- 
fied ambition,  satiated  pride,  the  delights  of 
the  palate,  exquisite  feeding,  soft  beds,  young 
wives,  indulgent  mistresses,  late  hours,  sleep- 
less nights  divided  between  work  and  festivity, 
constant  riding  on  horseback  which  allowed 
him  to  put  on  flesh,  [all  this  for  Tacitus]  had 
thickened  his  limbs  and  dulled  his  senses.  .  .  . 
His  strong  and  bony  chin  bore  well  the  base  of 

1  Seventeenth-century  moralists,  who  were  foremost  as  writers 
of  the  classical  school. — TR. 


216  BALZAC 

his  features.  His  nose  was  but  a  thin  and 
transparent  line.  .  .  .  His  look  was  searching, 
wavering  like  a  restless  flame,  like  care.  His 
forehead  seemed  to  have  grown  broader  beneath 
the  bareness  of  his  long,  flat,  black  hair,  half 
fallen  under  the  moisture  of  sustained  thought 
[here  Tacitus  has  given  way  to  Balzac] ;  it 
seemed  as  if  his  head,  by  nature  small,  had  grown 
larger  in  order  to  let  roll  more  freely  between  his 
temples  the  cog-wheels  and  the  combinations  of  a 
soul  whose  every  thought  was  a  whole  empire. 
The  chart  of  the  globe  seemed  to  be  incrusted  on 
the  world-map  of  that  head."  How  can  I  trust 
such  a  portrait  when  I  see  to  what  an  extent 
the  rhetorician,  the  writer,  is  carried  away  by 
his  love  of  metaphor  and  redundancy  ?  Thus 
does  Sainte-Beuve  indirectly  hold  up  Balzac's 
style  as  an  example  of  what  should  be  avoided. 
The  reader  whom  Sainte-Beuve  imagined 
even  while  asserting  that  he  no  longer  existed, 
was  actually  alive  and  close  to  him ;  he  was 
called  Nisard,1  and  wrote  only  two  lines  on 
Balzac,  of  which  one  is  more  than  half  wrong, 
and  the  other  wholly  right.  *  I  should  less  fear 
a  return  of  vogue  for  Balzac's  good  novels  were 

1  Desire  Nisard  (1806-88)  wrote  a  famous  Histoire  de  la  Litterature 
franfaise,  and  for  long  withstood  the  romantics. — TR. 


HIS  STYLE  217 

their  manners  less  anecdotic  and  their  language 
more  natural.'  Nisard  is  not  at  all  wrong  in 
esteeming  that  the  manners  of  Balzac's  works 
are  '  anecdotic,'  that  is  to  say,  exceptional,  and 
fit  only  to  be  regarded  as  something  freakish. 
Only  he  forgets  the  better  Balzac,  who  created 
typical  characters,  who,  as  I  trust  I  have  shown, 
is  precisely  a  great  classic,  and  has  to  a  point 
the  same  turn  of  mind  as  Moliere  and  La 
Bruyere  and  Bourdaloue.  As  for  his  judg- 
ment on  his  style  it  is  quite  right,  and  what 
Balzac  lacked  most  was  just  naturalness.  I 
hold  to  what  I  have  already  said,  that,  save 
for  the  pasticcio  of  the  Conies  drolatiques,  the 
portraits,  the  conversations  between  vulgar 
people,  and  a  few  parts  where  he  forgot  to  be 
careful  about  his  writing,  and  in  which  he  was 
happy — except  for  these,  and  that  means  nearly 
all  along,  Balzac  was  a  very  bad  writer.  I  am 
hardly  affected  by  that  consideration  of  Brune- 
tiere's  (which  he  seems  to  have  set  much  store 
by,  since  he  applies  it  to  Moliere  as  well  as  to 
Balzac),  that  to  write  badly  is  a  '  condition  for 
the  representation  of  life.'  It  seems  to  me  that 
if  you  be  a  playwright  or  a  novelist,  you  must 
make  your  characters  talk  according  to  their 
origins  and  their  condition  in  life  ;  but  when 


218  BALZAC 

you  yourself  talk,  or  when  you  set  characters 
of  the  middle  class  or  of  middling  education 
talking,  it  seems  to  me  that  your  duty  of  repre- 
senting life  does  not  oblige  you  to  write  '  une 
ame  genereuse  a  des  regals  peu  chers,'  nor  l  de 
quoique  1'on  vous  somme,'  nor '  consciemment ' 
in  place  of  '  conscient,'  nor  yet  again  '  sortir 
son  chien.' 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      219 


VIII 

BALZAC   AFTER   HIS   DEATH 

APART  from  Montaigne,  Voltaire,  and  Rousseau, 
I  know  of  no  other  French  writer  who  has  had 
such  a  moral  and  literary  influence  as  that  of 
Balzac.  To  begin  with  the  former,  it  is  known 
that  already  during  his  lifetime,  in  Russia,  at 
Venice,  and  doubtlessly  elsewhere  as  well  in 
polite  circles,  there  were  groups  of  men  and 
women  who  played  the  game,  which  was 
unfortunately  perhaps  something  more  than  a 
mere  game,  of  performing  in  reality  Balzac's 
world  of  man,  sharing  among  themselves  the 
parts  of  Rubempre,  Rastignac,  Lousteau, 
Bianchon,  Manfrigueuse,  Beauseant,  Langeais, 
and  perhaps  Vautrin.  The  thing  had  never 
been  seen  since  VAstree,1  though  it  has  cer- 
tainly been  of  frequent  occurrence,  though  not 
signal  enough  for  literary  history  to  have 
handed  it  down  to  us. 

1  A  novel  by  the  celebrated  precieuse  Madeleine  Scudery  (1607- 
1701)._TR. 


220  BALZAC 

But  that  is  a  mere  episode.  Since  Balzac's 
death  it  has  needed  but  a  pair  of  eyes  to  see 
that  life  as  Balzac  described  it — that  is  to  say, 
the  rage  to  rise  to  dignities  and  wealth,  Varri- 
visme  as  it  has  been  called — has  become,  now 
more  than  ever  before,  the  normal  way  of 
life  for  a  very  great  number  of  French  people, 
and  their  normal  way  of  feeling  and  thinking. 
By  the  rapid  fortunes  which  he  made  some  of 
his  unscrupulous  characters  achieve,  and  above 
all,  or  at  least  quite  as  much,  by  the  artistic 
beauty  which  he  bestowed  on  them,  Balzac 
very  probably  (for  in  such  a  case  positive 
assertion  is  not  possible),  increased  the  number 
of  such  men  and  women.  He  increased  the 
number  not  exactly  of  scoundrels,  but  of  the 
kind  of  folk  of  whom  it  may  be  said,  as  honest 
Michel  Chrestien  says  to  Rubempre,  '  There  is 
in  you  a  devilish  spirit  which  justifies  in  your 
own  eyes  whatever  is  most  contrary  to  our 
principles  :  instead  of  being  a  sophist  in  ideas 
you  will  be  a  sophist  in  action.'  The  expression 
is  of  Balzac's  own  coining,  and  it  is  excellent : 
he  increased  the  number  of  sophists  in  action  ; 
and  if  any  one  should  tell  me  that  it  is  hardly 
necessary  to  fight  shy  of  using  the  word  scoun- 
drel in  order  to  go  hunting  after  another  which 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      221 

implies  quite  as  much,  if  not  more,  in  describ- 
ing the  conscious  rogue  who  compounds  with 
his  conscience,  I  must  admit  that  I  have  little 
to  say  in  defence.  So  incomparably  is  example 
stronger  than  precept,  that  of  the  two  men, 
Stendhal,  the  cynic,  and  Balzac,  who  is  quite 
other  than  cynical  both  in  his  own  person  and 
in  his  own  speech,  but  who  brings  on  the  scene 
and  in  full  light  the  most  cynical  characters,  sur- 
rounds them  with  a  certain  halo,  and  gives  them 
a  certain  prestige,  it  is  certainly  the  moralising 
Balzac  who  was  the  more  demoralising. 

Edmond  About,  who  moreover  wrote  to 
Flaubert  concerning  Madame  Bovary,  '  I 
thought  I  was  reading  a  novel  by  Balzac, 
better  written,  more  passionate,  cleaner,  and 
freer  from  those  two  sickening  odours  which 
sometimes  take  hold  of  me  in  the  middle  of  the 
writings  of  the  Touraine  man,  the  odour  of  a 
sink  and  the  odour  of  the  sacristy '  —  Ed- 
mond About  well  characterised  this  sort  of 
influence  in  one  of  his  novels.  Two  young 
people  are  busy  chatting,  he  a  charming  young 
man  and  she  a  delightful  young  lady ;  the 
young  man  believes  the  young  lady  to  be 
worth  a  million  of  money,  and  the  young  lady 
believes  him  to  be  both  rich  and  titled,  each 


222  BALZAC 

being  the  dupe  of  the  other.  *  And  do  you  like 
Hermann  and  Dorothea  ?  '  said  the  young  man. 
4  Oh  !  an  insipid  idyll !  Oh,  no  !  Have  you 
read  Balzac  ?  He  's  the  man  for  me.'  It  is 
two  young  Balzacians  who,  without  suspecting 
it,  are  thus  talking  together. 

And  I  need  not  say,  for  omnia  sana  sanis, 
that  the  influence  of  Balzac  over  a  man  may 
happen  to  be  excellent.  I  once  knew  a  pure 
hero  of  Balzac's,  alive  and  breathing,  who  was 
neither  a  Russian  nor  a  Venetian.1  When  he 
was  studying  rhetoric,  and  far  from  the  top  of 
his  class,  he  used  to  say  to  his  master  when 
questioned  by  him  as  to  his  vocation,  '  I  will 
be  editor-in-chief  of  the  Revue  des  Deuce  Mondes 
and  a  professor  at  the  College  de  France.'  He 
was  a  professor  in  schools  that  train  lads  for 
their  baccalaureat ;  he  was  editor  of  the  Revue 
des  Deux  Mondes  at  twenty-five ;  he  became 
its  director ;  he  became  the  foremost  literary 
critic  of  France  ;  he  became  a  professor  at  the 
Ecole  Normale,  where  he  had  failed  to  enter 
when  twenty  years  old ;  he  became  a  great 
orator,  a  kind  of  apostle  (he  became  a  father- 
confessor  of  minds  and  consciences);  he  used 
to  work  fourteen  hours  a  day  (and  he  really 

1  This  is  an  allusion  to  Taine. — TR. 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      223 

did  so,  and  not  merely  according  to  a  for- 
mula) ;  and  he  was  the  most  honest  of  men  and 
the  kindest,  and  his  last  book  was  in  praise  of 
Balzac,  whom  he  had  always  admired.  He  was 
a  Balzacian,  but  he  had  derived  from  Balzac 
only  the  lesson  of  determination,  of  tenacity, 
of  unalterable  self-confidence,  of  stubborn  hard 
work,  and  of  arrivisme  by  any  means,  save  such 
as  were  shameful.  That  kind  of  Balzacism 
must  exist,  since  I  met  with  a  revered  example 
of  it ;  only  I  think  it  must  be  exceptional. 

His  literary  influence  was,  as  near  as  such  a 
thing  may  be  reckoned,  quite  as  important  as 
his  moral  influence.  This  man  who  funda- 
mentally (though  what  is  fundamentally  ?)  was 
a  romantic,  who  was  at  least  half  romantic 
and  half  realist,  who  according  to  many  was 
more  of  a  romantic  than  a  realist,  created 
realism,  or  rather  made  it  live  again,  and  buried 
romanticism  for  fifty  years.  He  said  to  men 
of  letters,  by  the  example  given  in  the  best 
part  of  his  work,  '  Above  all  things,  use  your 
eyes  well ;  nothing  in  the  world  has  so  great  a 
value  as  the  thing  seen.'  Truth  to  tell,  he  was 
helped  by  the  force  of  circumstances,  by  the 
fact  that  romanticism  had  lasted  for  half  a 
century,  and  that  something  else  therefore  was 


224  BALZAC 

due  to  arrive.  It  is  a  law  in  literature,  in  fact 
the  only  one  of  which  I  am  quite  sure,  that 
after  a  period  of  sensibility  and  imagination 
comes  a  period  of  observation,  and  that  a 
period  of  observation  is  followed  by  one  of 
imagination  and  sensibility.  But  still,  in  the 
overtaking  of  an  outworn  genre,  what  is  the  real 
use  of  those  who  are  introducing  the  new  one  ? 
To  set  everything  loose  with  a  vigorous  blow  ; 
to  steer  literature  on  to  a  road  where  it  would 
have  gone  by  itself,  though  hesitating  and  slow  ; 
to  prevent — and  this  is  an  inestimable  boon — 
the  style  which  is  going  out  of  fashion  from 
having,  for  lack  of  opponents  of  high  standing, 
a  poor  and  lamentable  retinue,  a  train  of  copy- 
ists who  work  by  rule  of  thumb,  without  either 
originality  or  merit.  Had  La  Chaussee  1  had 
any  genius  at  all,  he  would  have  prevented 
people  from  writing  right  down  to  1800,  and 
even  on  to  1820,  tragedies  like  those  of  Cre- 
billon.2  Men  of  genius  who  introduce  a  new 
style  spare  the  old  one  the  shame  of  dying  by 
slow  dilution ;  they  do  it  the  service  of  allowing 
it  to  die  in  the  fulness  of  its  beauty. 

1  Pierre-Claude  Nivelle  de  la  Chaussee  (1092-1754)  the  first  to 
exploit  the  comedy  of  tears. — TR. 

2  Prosper  Crebillon  (1674-1762),  a  playwright  who  specialised 
in  horror.— TB. 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      225 

That  is  just  what  Balzac  did  for  romanticism, 
which  after  all  he  adored.  In  spite  of  a  very 
great  deal  that  is  freakish  and  improbable,  he 
was  greatly  devoted  to  truth,  and  had  for  it 
one  of  those  passions  which  may  indulge  an 
occasional  infidelity,  since  even  that  revives 
them ;  and  thus  it  came  about  that  he  was, 
unconsciously  and  half  involuntarily,  the  re- 
storer of  realism  to  French  literature.  Good 
and  bad,  true  and  false,  he  founded  it  all  alike 
somewhat  at  random  ;  but  still  the  fact  re- 
mains that  he  founded  it,  and  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  it  was  high  time.  He  owed  his 
great  success  perhaps  rather  more  to  what  was 
bad  in  that  novelty  than  to  what  was  good  in 
it.  We  may  own  before  foreigners,  since  they 
are  well  aware  of  it,  that  there  are  not  very 
many  of  us  in  France  who  are  fond  of  stark 
realism,  of  a  passionless  and  unsystematic 
description  of  mankind  surprised  in  all  the 
complicated  and  trivial  details  of  his  moral  life. 
But  we  have  a  shameful  hankering  for  the 
literature  of  brutality.  We  are  fond  of  violence, 
daring,  and  coarseness  in  our  writers,  just  be- 
cause we  are  the  most  forbearing  of  men,  and 
we  delight  in  reading  tales  of  stormy  passion 
because  we  are  accustomed  to  placid  ones. 


226  BALZAC 

And  our  authors,  who  know  us,  play  on  this 
weakness  for  their  own  profit ;  though  it 
is  but  fair  to  add  that  we  grant  the  writers 
who  do  so  but  little  enduring  success.  If  that 
of  Balzac  lasted  longer  and  may  be  considered 
as  permanent,  it  is  because  a  considerable  part 
of  his  work  contains,  as  we  have  already  seen 
well  enough,  earnest,  conscientious,  and  pro- 
found realism,  and  because  he  was  the  first,  in 
face  of  the  still  triumphant  romantic  literature, 
to  give  vigorous  characteristics  to  the  new  or 
renewed  art. 

For  both  the  good  and  the  evil  part  of  a 
writer's  influence  and  its  effect  on  posterity 
must  be   taken  into  account.      A  writer  has 
indeed  an  influence  on  posterity,  a  far-reach- 
ing and  general  influence,  a  popular  influence 
through  what  is  worst  in  him;  and  you  must 
not  cry  out,  4  There  will  be  a  but.'    Lucretius 
owes    the    fact   of    his   being   unknown   save 
to  a  handful  of  scholars  to  the  fact  that  he 
spoke  the  worst  ill  of  the  religious  feelings ; 
Rabelais    owes    his    popularity    to    his    being 
filthy ;   Montaigne  his  to  his  being  sceptical ; 
neither   Ronsard    nor  Malherbe   enjoys  any ; 
Moliere  owes  it  to  his  being  anti-clerical  and 
sometimes  coarse ;    Racine  has  none,  nor  has 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      227 

Montesquieu ;  Voltaire  owes  it  to  his  having 
been  anti-religious  ;  Rousseau  to  what  is  anti- 
social in  le  Contrat  social,  or  voluptuous  and 
shameful  in  les  Confessions.  Glory  too  is 
founded  on  folly,  and  fools  being  in  a  majority, 
I  should  like  to  know  how  it  could  be  otherwise. 
Balzac  pleased  people,  even  after  his  death, 
by  all  those  vulgarities,  trivialities,  and  brutal- 
ities with  which  we  have  already  reproached 
him.  He  pleased  by  his  bad  style,  most  readers 
being  unable  to  stand  the  style  of  a  Merimee 
or  a  Gautier,  being  as  it  were  put  out  of 
countenance  by  it,  while  they  are  not  in  the 
least  bewildered  by  that  of  a  Stendhal  or  a 
Balzac,  which  is  their  very  own.  On  this  point 
Sainte-Beuve  remarks  :  '  Balzac,  whom  I  do 
not  pretend  to  belittle  on  the  ground  of  the 
manners  of  his  day  [frightful  style,  but  let  that 
pass],  and  of  certain  manners  in  particular, 
of  which  he  understands  everything  and  has 
a  masterly  grip,  nevertheless  gets  carried  away 
and  continually  oversteps  the  limits  of  good 
taste ;  he  gets  intoxicated  on  the  very  wine 
that  he  himself  pours  out,  and  loses  his  self- 
control  ;  the  fumes  get  into  his  head  and  he 
gets  bemused  ;  he  is  altogether  an  accomplice 
and  a  fellow-toper  in  what  he  offers  us  and  in 


228  BALZAC 

what  he  depicts.  It  is  a  great  advantage,  I 
know,  for  any  one  who  wants  to  pass  for  a  man 
of  genius  with  vulgar  people  altogether  to  lack 
good  sense  in  practical  life  and  the  management 
of  their  talent.  Balzac  enjoyed  that  advan- 
tage. .  .  .'  Will  you  consider,  in  passing,  a 
small  example  of  this  ?  I  had,  in  an  article, 
as  I  have  done  in  this  book,  pointed  out  the 
Hein  ?  which  Balzac  puts  into  the  mouth  of  a 
great  lady,  though  indeed  I  should  have  pointed 
it  out  all  the  same  had  he  put  it  into  the  mouth 
of  a  well-bred,  middle-class  young  lady  instead. 
A  university  professor  made  cruel  fun  of  me 
on  this  account.  The  Hein  ?  seemed  to  him 
quite  natural,  and  maybe  he  would  have  recog- 
nised the  great  lady  in  society  from  it ;  and 
no  doubt,  if  any  lady  avoided  using  it,  it  would 
have  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  mere  primness 
of  affectation.  The  vulgar,  coarse,  and  brutal 
expressions  of  Balzac,  in  matter  as  in  manner, 
had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  his  popularity. 

But,  if  it  be  true  that  writers  win  success 
through  their  faults,  they  win  it  through  them 
only  on  condition  that  they  accompany  great 
qualities.  If  Lucretius,  Moliere,  Voltaire,  and 
M.  Anatole  France  had  nothing  better  to  give 
us  than  their  horror  of  religion ;  if  Montaigne 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      229 

had  nothing  but  his  scepticism,  and  Rousseau 
no  more  than  his  political  radicalism  and 
erotic  temperament,  they  would  be  utterly 
unknown.  Qualities  impose  on  readers,  and 
failings  hold  them ;  qualities  make  people 
admire  a  writer,  and  failings  make  them  love 
him ;  qualities  inspire  veneration,  and  defects 
establish  and  maintain  intimacy.  Now  Balzac, 
perhaps  more  than  any  of  those  whom  I  have 
just  mentioned,  had  just  the  genius  necessary 
to  impose  itself,  in  good  earnest,  on  connois- 
seurs, rather  vaguely  upon  the  general  reader  ; 
while  he  has  just  enough  faults  to  make  himself 
beloved  by  the  mob :  and  that  is  how  glory  is 
founded,  and  I  would  say,  if  I  may,  how  is 
cast  that  glory  that  is  always  of  Corinthian 
metal ;  to  which  must  be  added  in  fairness  : 
nee  licet  omnibus  adire  Corinthum. 

Balzac's  influence  was  almost  immediate, 
that  is  to  say  from  about  1850  onward.  He 
had  immediate  successors  even  while  he  was 
still  living,  such  as  the  highly  estimable  Charles 
de  Bernard,  whose  masterpiece  was  out  in  1838, 
or  Champfleury,  who  reached  notoriety  about 
1855.  This  simple-hearted  man  in  love  with 
poetry,  as  Baudelaire  depicts  him — and  the 
portrait  may  be  true  enough  in  substance — 


230  BALZAC 

does  not  deserve  the  contempt  that  Brune- 
tiere  shows  for  him.  From  Balzac  he  took 
neither  the  great  nor  the  trivial  nor  the  base ; 
he  took  only  what  was  minute.  Narrow  in  out- 
look, but  very  clear-sighted,  utterly  devoid  of 
imagination,  but  a  slow  and  diligent  observer, 
he  described  minutely  and  accurately  the 
hobbies,  the  mechanical  gestures,  the  tics, 
ever  so  significant,  which  reveal  commonplace 
minds.  He  might  have  modelled  Poiret  and 
Mile.  Michonneau,  and  was  almost  capable  of 
chiselling  the  features  of  Charles  Bovary.  He 
helped  Balzac  a  great  deal  by  introducing  him, 
so  to  say,  in  his  lesser  aspects.  He  gave  entry 
to  the  Balzac  mansion  by  a  back  door. 

Duranty  (who  produced  nothing  or  almost 
nothing),  just  before  the  appearance  of  Flau- 
bert, whom  by  the  way  he  did  not  understand, 
founded  his  review  Le  Realisme,  and  if  he  be 
not  the  inventor  of  the  word,  he  most  certainly 
is  the  man  who  launched  it  on  to  the  great 
current  of  conversation,  critical  study,  and  the 
language. 

About  the  same  time  Hippolyte  Taine  pub- 
lished that  famous  article  which,  if  I  may  say 
so,  allowed  university  people,  and  the  very 
considerable  world  that  gravitates  round  them, 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      231 

to  admire  Balzac.  Brunetiere  puts  it  very  well : 
4  In  France,  for  the  last  hundred  years,  the 
adoption  of  a  writer  by  university  critics  is  as 
a  rule  his  consecration,  and,  in  any  case,  it  is 
that  which  puts  him  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming 
a  classic.5  And  that  may  be  readily  under- 
stood ;  university  critics,  from  prudence  and 
circumspection — I  will  not  say  for  other  reasons 
— being  always  a  generation  behind  the  times, 
that  is  to  say,  some  twenty-five  or  thirty  years, 
consequently  adopt  none  but  writers  who 
are  well  on  in  years.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
Taine  was  both  the  most  brilliant  and  the  most 
serious  of  all  the  students  of  the  Ecole  Normale 
in  1848.  He  was  brought  up,  speaking  from 
the  literary  point  of  view  alone,  by  that  strange 
man  Jacquinet,  thoroughly  classical,  quite  in- 
sensible to  the  prestige  of  romanticism,  but 
who  at  the  same  time,  being  very  intelligent, 
was  wonderful  in  recognising  what  was  classical 
in  the  writers  of  his  own  tune,  and  who  revealed 
Stendhal  and  Balzac  to  his  pupils  as  being 
classics  at  bottom,  just  as  Racine,  Moliere,  and 
La  Bruyere  were — that  is  to  say,  as  careful 
observers  of  the  wheel-work  of  the  human 
machine.  Taine's  article,  with  which  I  do  not 
wholly  agree,  as  may  have  been  easily  noticed, 


232  BALZAC 

was  premeditated,  systematic,  and  lyrical ;  he 
likened  social  history  to  natural  history,  which 
is  at  once  an  apology  and  (much  against  the 
author's  will)  a  half  condemnation  of  Balzac ; 
he  mustered  into  line,  in  a  magisterial  way,  the 
leading  characters,  the  monsters  of  Balzac, 
deliberately  leaving  on  one  side  those  characters 
in  the  description  of  whom  he  failed,  and  finally 
claimed  for  his  author  the  right  of  writing  ill 
under  the  pretence  that  the  way  of  writing 
must  vary  according  to  the  readers  whom  you 
are  addressing  just  as  much  as  according  to  the 
age,  and  proved  that  Balzac  wrote  as  well  as 
could  be.  And,  in  short,  after  having  quoted 
the  description  of  the  feast  in  le  Lys  dans  la 
Vallee,  concluded  as  follows :  '  Whatever  may 
have  been  said  or  done,  it  is  obvious  that  such 
a  man  knew  his  mother  tongue,  and  knew  it  as 
well  as  any  one ;  only  he  plied  it  in  his  own 
style.'  I  would  add  :  and  without  style. 

That  article,  wonderfully  fine  after  all, 
ample,  wide  in  scope,  and  brilliant,  was  just 
the  thing  to  spur  admiration  for  Balzac ;  he 
was  certainly  made  to  be  relished  by  the  most 
delicate  taste,  but  it  was  meant,  above  all,  for 
the  crowd,  for  it  was  all  quite  plainly  set  forth, 
and  tended  entirely  to  the  glorification  of 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      233 

Balzac.  Sainte-Beuve's  article,  much  truer 
precisely  because  truth  exists  in  fine  shades, 
was  written  with  an  eye  on  the  public  at  large, 
so  that  they  should  wonder  whether  Balzac 
had  genius,  whether  he  was  genuine,  whether 
he  wrote  well,  and  how  much  he  had  of  genius 
and  to  what  extent  he  was  genuine,  and  to 
what  extent  he  was  really  a  good  writer.  It 
was  a  bad  article  of  strife  and  of  conquest.  It 
is  true  that  Sainte-Beuve  thought  neither  of 
striving  nor  of  conquering,  and  merely  took 
for  his  motto  '  The  truth  alone.' 

It  is  likely  enough  that  Balzac  at  least 
helped  to  temper  and  amend  George  Sand,  and 
was  for  something  in  her  breaking  away  from 
the  literature  of  pure  imagination  and  in  her 
return  to  the  simple  and  natural,  which  was 
indeed  no  more  than  a  return  to  her  natural 
self.  George  Sand,  who  set  out  on  the  full 
tide  of  romanticism  by  saying,  '  They  make 
monsters,  let  us  make  monsters  too,5  must 
have  been  brought  (amongst  other  motives), 
through  Balzac's  ascendency  over  her,  that 
Balzac  whom  she  personally  liked,  to  observing, 
if  not  patiently,  at  least  carefully,  the  things 
about  her,  the  peasantry,  the  middle-class 
people,  the  lesser  independent  gentlemen,  the 


234  BALZAC 

artists;  and  it  was  while  working  in  that  new 
vein  that  she  brought  out  those  amiable  books 
of  her  third  manner,  quite  true,  mark  you,  in 
spite  of  their  romantic  aspect,  and  these  are, 
I  think,  decidedly  the  ones  that  posterity  will 
most  cherish  among  all  that  came  from  her 
hand. 

And  mark  well  that  up  to  1848  George  Sand 
was  above  all  an  ideologist,  extremely  in  love 
with  abstract  ideas,  though  she  often  under- 
stood nothing  of  them ;  and  from  1848  on- 
ward she  set  herself  (except  in  her  polemical 
novel  Mademoiselle  de  la  Quintinie)  only  to 
paint  such  characters  as  had  some  basis  in 
reality,  stylises  in  their  shaping  and  made 
to  follow  the  evolutions  of  sentiment.  This 
was  a  transformation  which  George  Sand 
herself  very  surely  brought  about,  and  yet 
there  is  nothing  hazardous  in  attributing  it 
at  least  in  part  to  the  influence  of  her  great 
rival  and  friend. 

As  regards  the  stage,  Balzac's  influence  was 
no  less  important,  even  granting  that  it  was 
not  still  more  so.  Augier  and  Dumas  suc- 
ceeded Scribe,  and  it  will  be  agreed  that  both 
were  very  probably  led  by  Balzac's  example, 
and  above  all  by  his  success,  to  pour  into  their 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      235 

dramatic  work  a  greater  amount  of  realism 
than  the  stage  had  ever  known  since  Moli£re ; 
and  most  certainly,  with  the  first  appearances 
of  Augier  and  the  younger  Dumas,  people  might 
have  said  : 

And  now  we  must  no  longer  stray 
From  Nature's  path  one  step  away — 

as  La  Fontaine  did  when  Moliere  burst  upon 
the  world. 

Augier,  while  observing  on  his  own  account, 
and  very  well  too,  borrowed  from  Balzac  his 
overbearingly  vain  bourgeois,  and  no  doubt 
old  Poirier  passed  from  Balzac  to  Augier 
through  Jules  Sandeau,  himself  a  pupil  of 
Balzac's ;  but  it  seems  difficult  not  to  recognise 
in  him  old  Crevel,  just  as  Maitre  Guerin  has  an 
obvious  likeness  to  Baron  Hulot ;  he  borrowed 
from  him  his  courtesans  and  his  hatred  (which 
I  have  no  thought  of  blaming)  of  courtesans; 
he  borrowed  from  him  his  journalists  and 
his  aversion  (which  I  am  not  sufficiently 
disinterested  to  praise)  for  journalists.  His 
other  hatred,  that  for  clericals,  does  not  at  all 
link  him  with  Balzac,  but  rather  with  Eugene 
Sue  ;  but,  all  things  considered,  he  derives  from 
Balzac  more  than  from  any  one  else. 


236  BALZAC 

The  younger  Dumas  confined  himself  almost 
entirely  to  the  study  of  love  passions  because 
it  was  his  special  bent,  and  because  it  is  the 
surest  way  to  the  heart.  But  even  la  Dame 
aux  Camillas  herself  derives  to  some  extent 
from  Splendeurs  et  Miseres  des  Courtisanes, 
while  on  the  other  hand  la  Question  tf  Argent 
is  just  like  the  stage  version  of  a  novel  by 
Balzac,  with  more  mots,  traits,  and  wit  than 
Balzac  could  have  brought  out ;  but  that, 

/    after  all,  is  a  secondary  matter. 

/  Finally  came  Flaubert,  who  as  a  creative 
genius  is  very  little  below  Balzac,  and  who, 
as  artist  and  writer,  is  in  my  opinion  incom- 
parably his  superior.  Flaubert  filtered  Balzac. 
A  romantic  to  his  finger-tips,  more  so  even  than 
Balzac,  and  like  him  devoured  by  the  demon 
of  observation,  his  own  being  more  patient, 
more  obstinate,  and  more  minute  than  Balzac's, 
he  made  up  his  mind  (because  he  was  the  most 
c  conscious  '  and  the  most  deliberate  artist  in 
the  world)  to  satisfy  both  his  passion  as  a 
romantic  and  his  passion  as  a  realist,  but 
never  to  pour  both  these  elements  into  the 
same  novel.  It  was  quite  a  discovery  at  the 
time  that  he  wrote,  for  it  meant  the  remem- 
bering of  a  law  of  literary  art  which  had  been 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      237 

for  long  forgotten  or  ill  understood.  It  meant 
remembering  that  the  reader,  unconsciously, 
though  as  imperiously  as  possible,  at  all  times 
requires  of  a  work,  I  do  not  say  unity  of  tone, 
for  that  means  monotony,  but  unity  as  regards 
the  general  impression,  and  that  the  mixing 
up  of  romantic  art  for  instance  with  realistic 
art  bewilders  him,  disconcerts  him,  and  shocks 
him  just  as  much  as  would  an  anachronism  or 
the  mixing  up  of  different  epochs. 

Therein  he  is  quite  right,  for  just  as  there  is 
an  historical  epoch  proper  to  romanticism,  so 
there  is  one  proper  to  realism,  and  the  author 
who  mingles  or  entangles  both  in  the  same  book 
behaves  as  though  he  made  men  of  1765  con- 
verse with  men  of  1830,  as  though  Corneille 
should  make  Polyeucte  converse  with  Panurge  ; 
and  the  mingling  of  strict  observation  with 
unbridled  imagination  is  like  a  confusion  of 
dates. 

Balzac  too  often  behaved  in  this  way,  whilst 
Flaubert  never  did  so.  To  the  romantic  that 
throbbed  inside  him  he  yielded  Salammbo 
and  la  Tentation  de  Saint  Antoine  and  la 
Legende  de  Saint  Jean  VHospitalier  and  Herodi- 
ade ;  to  the  realist  in  him,  that  was  eager  for 
slow  and  careful  observation  of  his  fellows  and 


238  BALZAC 

even  of  himself — which  is  worth  noticing — he 
yielded  Madame  Bovary,  ^Education  senti- 
mentale,  and  Un  Cceur  simple.  And  that  is 
what  I  call  filtering  Balzac,  which  does  not 
at  all  account  for  Flaubert's  genius,  but  merely 
accounts  for  his  method  and  the  nature  of  his 
connection  with  Balzac. 

Moreover,  as  I  think  I  have  already  pointed 
out,  Flaubert  filtered  Balzac  again  inasmuch 
as  he  thought  of  Balzac's  personal  intrusions, 
his  dissertations,  digressions,  and  prologues,  and 
saw  how  much  they  hindered  his  work  and 
spoilt  its  effect,  condemning  them  outright,  and 
ruthlessly  ousting  them  from  any  place  in  his 
own  work.  He  who  was  teeming  with  ideas 
(confused,  indeed,  though  it  is  not  with  that 
that  we  have  now  to  deal),  with  feeling,  with 
passion,  with  indignation,  with  anger,  and  with 
eloquence  for  expressing  it  all,  firmly  made  up 
his  mind  never  to  put  any  of  these  things  into 
a  novel,  not  even  into  a  novel  of  imagination, 
exoticism,  and  antiquity.  It  seems  likely 
enough  that  it  was  his  reading  and  study  of 
Balzac's  novels  that  inspired  Flaubert  with 
hisj  whole  doctrine  of  '  impersonal  art,'  that 
truly'  classical  doctrine  which  was  respected  by 
Homer,  by  Pindar  (though  he  was  a  lyrical 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      289 

poet),  by  Virgil,  by  Lucan  (not  at  all  by 
Lucretius,  for  the  good  reason  that  he  was 
didactic),  by  all  the  epic  poets  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  by  the  poor  epic  poets  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  by  Le  Sage,  by  Marivaux,  by  Voltaire 
in  his  Contes,  and  indeed  even  by  Scarron 
himself. 

Flaubert  is  a  more  artistic  Balzac,  more 
scrupulous,  more  orderly,  and  more  careful  of 
proper  arrangement,  and  an  infinitely  better 
writer.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  Frederic  Moreau, 
Bovary,  Mme.  Bovary,  and  Homais,  he  created 
fewer  types,  fewer  characters  endowed  with 
enduring  life,  and  consequently  he  cannot  be 
put  on  the  same  level  of  admiration  as  his 
great  forerunner. 

After  him  came  his  pupils  (who  are  just  as 
much  Balzac's  as  his),  all  those  who  called 
themselves  '  naturalists,'  using  a  very  equi- 
vocal term  and  one  very  ill-made  (since  naturist 
would  be  the  right  one),  a  term  which  was 
invented  only  because  '  realist J  seemed  worn 
out.  With  them  are  all  those  who  made  use 
of  the  4  experiment  novels '  (a  term  equally 
inapt,  for  we  cannot  make  experiments  on 
the  manners  and  the  characters  of  men,  but 
merely  observations),  all  of  those  in  short  who 


240  BALZAC 

prided  themselves  on  having  no  other  art  than 
that  of  seizing  the  truth  and  setting  it  down. 

Alphonse  Daudet,  the  Goncourts,  Emile 
Zola,  and  Maupassant  are  of  Balzac's  direct 
progeny,  but  they  have  every  one  of  them  their 
own  originality  and,  as  it  were,  their  character- 
istic personal  mark. 

Alphonse  Daudet,  who  is  an  excellent  ob- 
server, answers  well  to  the  pretty  definition  of 
Nisard  (which  the  latter  applied  to  Balzac) ; 
he  is  the  painter  of  c  anecdotic  manners.'  As 
often  happens  with  Balzac,  he  makes  a  novel 
out  of  a  bit  of  Parisian  gossip,  or  an  anecdote 
to  the  bottom  of  which  he  knows  how  to  probe, 
and  in  which  he  sees  clearly  all  that  it  implies. 
It  is  certainly  an  excellent  way  of  setting 
about  giving  the  likeness  of  life  to  your  story — 
of  life  detailed  and  familiar  which  you  almost 
imagine  you  have  yourself  known.  But  that 
hardly  helps,  though  there  is  no  reason  why 
it  should  not  do  so,  in  the  creation  of  types  ; 
it  narrows  the  horizon  a  little,  but  it  does 
not  accustom  you  to  faire  de  Vhumain,  as  a 
literary  man  would  say.  That  is  to  say,  it 
in  nowise  helps  you  in  the  making  of  characters 
who  are  at  once  typical  and  full  of  individual 
life,  and  that  is  the  supreme  summit  of  art,  and 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      241 

a  summit  to  which  Balzac  often  attained. 
Daudet  drew  a  few  wonderful  portraits,  but 
he  created  no  types.  For  capital,  he  had 
sensibility  and  a  capacity  for  emotion  (the 
Dickens  part  of  him,  as  some  one  has  said),  and 
these  two  things  Balzac  was  practically  without, 
or  he  refused  to  capitulate  to  them. 

The  Goncourts  went  farther  in  that  direc- 
tion than  Daudet  himself,  and  they  delighted 
not  only  in  anecdotic  manners,  but  also  in 
exceptional  manners  and  characters.  Balzac 
did  not  leave  that  out  either,  for  there  is  no 
territory  which  he  left  unsurveyed ;  but  with 
him  the  nearness  of  characters  recognised  at 
first  sight  by  the  reader  as  being  true  war- 
rants and  renders  genuine,  if  I  may  say  so, 
the  exceptional  characters  and  psychological 
rarities  which  he  introduces.  In  the  Gon- 
courts, all  or  nearly  all  the  characters  being 
exceptional,  we  hesitate  to  accept  them  as 
true,  and  it  would  really  be  necessary  for  the 
authors  to  give  us  their  word  of  honour  that 
they  were  so ;  and  then  each  of  them  would 
become  as  valuable  as  an  historical  document, 
a  singularly  interesting  document  of  4  lesser 
history.'  At  bottom  it  is  exactly  that ;  and  it 
is  obvious  that  the  Goncourts  had  but  little 


242  BALZAC 

imagination,  and  that  they  found  their  char- 
acters in  the  slice  of  real  life  which  surrounded 
them ;  and  they  must  be  read  in  that  con- 
viction. There  remains  the  fact  that  this 
kind  of  art,  most  ingenious  and  scrupulous 
though  it  be,  hardly  satisfies  at  all  our  hanker- 
ing to  find  in  our  novelists  what  we  ourselves 
have  seen  still  better  seen  by  them,  more 
strongly  drawn,  better  set  off,  and  more 
highly  coloured,  assuming  vaster  proportions 
and  depths  which  we  had  but  vaguely  sus- 
pected. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  it  was  the  reading  of 
Balzac,  and  of  Taine's  article  on  him,  as  well  as 
the  other  works  of  that  critic  that  revealed  to 
Emile  Zola  his  literary  vocation.  In  detesting 
Zola,  Taine  was  quite  as  ungrateful  as  Chateau- 
briand when  he  detested  romanticism.  Taine 
had  very  rightly  observed  that  Balzac  treated 
the  social  world  just  as  he  might  have  done 
a  zoological  one,  and  wrote  a  natural  history 
of  humankind.  Such  was  Emile  Zola's  art 
formula.  He  determined  to  look  on  men 
merely  as  animals,  and  human  society  as  an 
animal  one.  It  must  be  noted  that  this  is  not 
altogether  wrong — it  is  a  half-truth ;  for  animal- 
ism has  indeed  a  huge  share  in  all  of  us,  and 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      243 

Baron  Hulot,  Philippe  Brideau,  and  Old  Goriot, 
whom  we  feel  to  be  so  life-like,  are  nothing  else 
than  big  super-animals.  And  that  shows  that 
very  fine  things  may  be  done,  with  proper 
talent,  working  from  this  simple  conception. 
But  it  is  obvious  that  he  who  neither  rises 
above  it  nor  gets  beyond  it  can  achieve  nothing 
more  than  4  the  epic  poem  of  human  animalism,' 
as  M.  Lemaitre  has  said.  Zola,  either  from 
incapacity  or  purposely,  forbade  himself  all 
psychology,  and  said  proudly,  '  I  have  no  need 
of  psychology.'  And  in  so  doing  he  showed 
himself  very  different  from  Balzac,  who  is 
oftentimes  the  most  penetrating  psychologist 
in  the  world. 

And  still  he  did  resemble  him.  Like  him 
deeply  romantic  (as  he  himself  confessed),  and 
like  Flaubert  in  his  striving  to  '  get  rid  of  the 
romantic  virus,'  without  ever  succeeding ;  like 
him  in  love,  only  still  more  so,  with  great 
ensembles,  and  able  to  set  crowds  in  motion 
like  the  waves  of  a  vast  sea ;  like  him  (though 
not  more  so)  most  eager  to  seize  the  external 
aspect  of  things,  of  a  house,  a  street,  a  market- 
place, a  corner  of  a  town,  a  whole  town,  or  a 
province,  and  succeeding  rather  well,  in  spite 
of  a  useless  symbolism  and  sort  of  mytholo- 


244  BALZAC 

gism,  in  rendering  them  and  making  them 
impressive,  he  is  still  in  my  opinion  the  one 
successor  among  all  the  immediate  followers 
of  Balzac  who  most  resembles  the  great  master. 
His  faults,  which  are  enormous,  derive  partly 
from  Balzac,  or  can  at  least  be  considered  as 
being  due  to  his  tradition  ;  his  vulgarity,  his 
triviality,  his  liking  for  dirtiness  (since  Boileau 
uses  that  word,  why  should  it  be  forbidden  me  ?), 
his  sordisme  if  you  like  that  better,  make  us 
think  rather  of  Restif  de  la  Bretonne l  than  of 
Balzac  no  doubt ;  still  we  cannot  hide  from 
ourselves  the  fact  that  these  elements  are  to 
be  found  in  Balzac,  and  perhaps  oftener  than 
we  could  wish.  Zola  was  a  coarser  and  a  more 
vulgar  Balzac,  authorised,  as  it  were,  by  what 
was  gross  and  coarse  in  Balzac  himself.  No  one 
perhaps  ever  had  more  than  he  the  advantage 
which  lack  of  fineness  gives  in  appealing  to  the 
public  at  large,  and  it  must  be  acknowledged 
that  Balzac  too  enjoyed  this  precious  privilege 
in  considerable  measure.  An  excellent  man 
moreover — for  we  feel  bound  to  say  it  when 
we  have  been  treating  him  so  ill,  even  though 

1  Restif  de  la  Bretonne  (1734-1806),  the  author  of  very  unequal 
and  licentious  noYels,  apparently  the  outcome  of  his  personal  ill- 
living. — TB. 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      245 

it  has  no  connection  with  the  matter  we  are 
now  dealing  with— a  man  of  generous  feelings, 
in  spite  of  his  extraordinary  irritability  and 
pride  ;  a  man  who  did  credit  to  himself  by  his 
later  works,  however  bad  they  may  be ;  a  man 
of  whom  we  may  say  that  he  began  with  fine 
books  that  were  bad  deeds,  and  ended  with 
good  deeds  that  were  bad  books. 

Maupassant,  a  direct  pupil  of  Flaubert, 
learnt  from  him  that  '  impersonal  art '  which 
he  put  into  practice  so  strictly,  even  more 
strictly  than  Flaubert  himself.  He  owes,  after 
all,  little  enough  to  Balzac.  He  is  impersonal ; 
he  is  no  longer  a  romantic  nor  a  '  low  realist,' 
nor  a  creator  of  types  ;  he  has  neither  Balzac's 
defects  nor  his  outstanding  qualities.  Still 
the  frankness  of  narrative,  the  robust  shaping 
of  exposition,  the  absence  of  all  affectation  in 
writing,  the  something  calm  and  strong  that 
makes  an  author  seem  like  a  natural  power, 
is  his  in  common  with  Balzac.  The  same 
fundamental  pessimism,  too,  is  to  be  found  in 
both.  The  language  and  the  style  as  well, 
though  better  than  those  of  Balzac,  or  if  you 
prefer,  less  unequal,  remind  you  of  him  at  his 
best,  by  their  naturalness,  their  spontaneity, 
their  genuineness,  their  lack  of  pose ;  by  the 


246  BALZAC 

fact  that  they  give  the  impression  that  before 
setting  about  writing,  and  in  order  to  do  so, 
the  author  did  not  put  himself  in  4  a  literary 
frame  of  mind.'  We  know  well  enough  that 
Balzac  had  too  often  just  these  defects,  though 
I  recognised  too  that  he  had  often  these  same 
qualities  in  a  high  degree. 

M.  Bourget,  though  indisputably  Balzac's 
inferior,  as  he  would  be  himself  the  first  not 
only  to  admit  but  to  proclaim,  is  the  contempor- 
ary novelist  who  most  resembles  him,  whom  he 
has  evidently  passionately  read  over  and  over 
again.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  has  nothing  of  the 
romantic  about  him,  he  will  have  nothing  to  do 
with  low  realism,  and  I  would  even  say  that  he 
abhors  it.  But  (here  is  my  opinion  as  to  his 
defects)  in  spite  of  the  examples  and  lessons  set 
him  by  Flaubert,  he  deliberately  turned  his  back 
on  4  impersonal  art '  and  relapsed  on  disserta- 
tions, prologues,  and  almost  continuous  com- 
mentary. He  seems  to  be  holding  his  char- 
acters by  the  hand,  even  suspending  at  times 
their  actions,  so  that  he  may  say  to  us : 
c  Just  see  what  they  are  about ;  they  think  in 
this  way  or  in  that  way  or  hi  that  other  way. 
And  that  is  easily  explicable,  for  it  is  quite 
natural  for  the  human  heart  to.  ,  Please 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      247 

notice  in  short  .  .  .'  And  this  commentary 
is  much  cleverer  and  much  less  out  of  place 
than  in  Balzac,  and  I  do  not  think  that  he 
ever  degenerates  into  mere  digressions.  But  it 
is  almost  perpetual;  it  hinders  action,  takes 
from  the  reader  the  pleasure  of  himself  making 
reflections  which  the  author  makes  for  him, 
irritates  his  pride,  which  thinks,  '  I  could  easily 
explain  these  things  for  myself  without  his 
doing  it  for  me  so  complacently,'  and  gives 
the  work  the  hybrid  character  of  a  narrative 
mixed  up  with  a  series  of  lectures. 

Another  resemblance  to  Balzac,  fortuitous 
perhaps,  pertaining  perhaps  to  something  which 
may  be  common  to  both,  is  the  fact  that  M. 
Bourget,  like  Balzac,  has  a  very  unequal  style, 
excellent  at  times,  as  in  the  philosophical, 
psychological,  and  moral  formulce ;  at  other 
times  painful,  obscure,  difficult,  and  incorrect. 

And  like  Balzac,  as  regards  his  merits,  M. 
Bourget  aims  at  creating  types,  and  he  often 
more  than  half  succeeds,  as  in  the  type  of  a 
genuinely  democratic  professor  imbued  with 
the  spirit  of  1848  as  with  a  religion ;  the  type 
of  the  French  aristocrat  inwardly  self-exiled, 
who  banishes  himself  from  the  nation  as  from 
a  foreign  body;  the  type  of  the  egoist,  self- 


248  BALZAC 

centred  and  strengthened  in  his  egoism  by 
scientific  doctrines  and  a  scientific  education 
wanting  in  ballast,  etc. 

M.  Bourget  is  fond  of  the  novel  of  ideas,  and 
even  of  the  problem  novel,  and  herein  he  much 
resembles  Balzac,  and  yet  with  a  good  deal  of 
difference  too,  for  Balzac  scatters  the  ideas  he 
treasures  all  through  his  novel,  whilst  M. 
Bourget  incorporates  them  in  his,  makes  of  one 
of  them  the  very  soul  of  his  work,  and  in  such 
a  way  that  thesis  and  action  mingle,  or  rather 
fuse  together,  so  that  the  novel  from  beginning 
to  end  moves  onward  both  to  its  unravelling 
and  to  its  conclusion. 

Like  Balzac,  M.  Bourget  is  very  psychological, 
but  with  this  difference,  that  Balzac  is  more 
of  a  moralist,  an  observer  of  manners  than 
a  psychologist,  while  M.  Bourget,  though  he 
observes  well,  is  more  of  a  psychologist  than 
a  moralist,  just  as  Stendhal  was  ;  he  delights 
somewhat  less  in  studying  and  noting  the 
diverse  ways  of  men  than — a  character  being 
given — in  dogging,  watching,  spying,  and  prob- 
ing into  its  secret  details,  and  in  all  their 
delicate  play,  into  the  fine  and  subtle  springs 
of  action. 

Add  to  this,  what  is  less  important,  that  M. 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      249 

Bourget,  like  Balzac  very  often,  though  by  no 
means  invariably,  is  fond  of  slipping  into  his 
novel  a  dramatic  scene,  an  intrigue,  unex- 
pected and  pathetic  incidents,  a  whole  drama 
in  short.  Finally — and  it  is  a  claim  than  which 
none  could  be  worthier— M.  Bourget  is  the 
best,  the  most  thorough-going  pupil  of  Balzac's 
who  has  revealed  himself  since  1870,  without 
being  in  the  least  an  imitator. 

The  direct  influence  of  Balzac  is  at  an  end. 
He  is  neither  copied  any  longer,  nor  is  his 
general  turn  of  mind  to  be  seen  in  the  works 
produced  since  1900.  Contemporary  novels 
remind  us  rather  of  George  Sand,  or  Sandeau 
or  Octave  Feuillet  than  of  him.  People  be- 
come classic  ;  they  do  not  imitate  the  classics  ; 
they  do  not  even  get  their  inspiration  from 
them ;  they  are  merely  part  of  the  mental 
development,  which  is,  after  all,  a  highly  im- 
portant thing ;  but  still  there  is  not  in  1912 
(any  more  than  there  was  in  1770)  a  school  of 
Corneille,  of  Racine,  or  of  Moliere,  nor  is  there 
any  longer  a  school  of  Balzac.  Balzac  is 
henceforward,  like  all  the  great  classics, 
like  Chateaubriand,  for  instance,  or  Victor 
Hugo,  according  to  whichever  metaphor  you 
choose,  set  above  all  schools  like  a  quicken- 


250  BALZAC 

ing  star,  or  beneath  them  all  like  a  fertilising 
soil. 

In  order  to  fix  Balzac's  place  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  and  to  complete  his  character- 
isation, an  attempt  has  been  made  to  find  out 
every  one  with  whom  he  might  possibly  be 
compared,  and  thus  it  comes  about  that  a  very 
great  critic  has  compared  him  to  Sainte-Beuve, 
solely  from  the  point  of  view,  it  is  true,  of 
method,  considering  that  he  studied  men  just 
in  the  same  way  as  Balzac,  quite  unhampered 
by  any  a  priori  or  metaphysics,  like  true 
naturalists.  Even  when  reduced  to  this  point 
of  view,  the  parallel  is  quite  baseless.  Sainte- 
Beuve  invented  nothing,  nor  did  he  wish  to. 
Balzac  invents  at  least  as  much  as  he  observes, 
and  in  my  opinion  a  great  deal  more,  a  fact 
for  which  moreover  I  bear  him  no  grudge. 
Sainte-Beuve  knows  of  nothing  but  investiga- 
tion, and  wishes  to  know  of  nothing  else ; 
Balzac  trusts,  and  quite  rightly,  to  his  intuition, 
and  follows  it  to  such  lengths  indeed  that  it 
ceases  to  be,  even  for  him,  a  safe  guide  ;  Sainte- 
Beuve  has  no  a  priori  whatever,  and  Balzac 
has  an  a  priori,  or  (if  you  prefer  the  term)  a 
general  idea  which  dominates  and  overhangs 
observation,  and  that  is  the  enormous  a  priori 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      251 

due  to  his  fundamental  pessimism  and  essential 
misanthropy.  There  exists  between  Balzac 
and  Sainte-Beuve  absolutely  no  common  bond, 
and  there  are  no  two  natures  which,  not  only 
from  the  point  of  view  of  taste  and  of  tastes, 
but  in  everything  else,  could  be  more  widely 
sundered. 

Balzac  can  only  be  compared  to  some  pur- 
pose, and  to  finish  defining  him  to  George  Sand 
and  Flaubert  in  his  own  century,  and  to  Le 
Sage  and  La  Bruyere  in  the  rest  of  French 
literature.  George  Sand  has  far  less  than  he 
the  power  of  creating  types,  and  the  almost 
material  proof  is  in  the  fact  that  though  we 
say  commonly,  '  He  is  a  Grandet  all  over,  or 
a  Goriot,  or  a  Philippe  Brideau,'  we  never  say, 
'  He  is  a  Villemer  or  a  Merquem.'  Hardly 
ever;  though  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that 
people  will  say,  '  Here  is  a  Mauprat  or  a 
Lelia.'  But  George  Sand  had  a  better  style 
than  Balzac,  as  he  himself  recognised ;  and 
instead  of  following  a  rigid  plan,  she  followed  a 
pliant  and  a  supple  one,  in  itself  a  good  way  of 
achieving  resemblance  to  real  life  ;  and  she 
had  grace,  she  possessed  the  molle  atque  face- 
turn  which  Balzac  was  utterly  without ;  and, 
finally,  in  truth  of  detail,  in  her  subservient 


252  BALZAC 

and  incidental  characters,  in  the  smooth 
current  of  ordinary  everyday  happenings,  I 
cannot  too  often  repeat  how  clearly  this 
idealistic  and  imaginative  woman  saw  every- 
thing, and  had  the  genuine  and  simple  sense 
— without  bias,  save  towards  indulgence — of 
reality,  actual  reality,  which  is  a  thing  so  far 
removed  from  '  realism.'  Whatever  may  have 
been  said  about  it,  people  will  get  nearer  to 
the  true  history  of  average  daily  life  in  the 
nineteenth  century  when  reading  George  Sand 
than  when  reading  Balzac. 

Flaubert,  that  unbridled  romantic  who  had 
such  matchless  gifts  as  a  realist,  and  who  was 
therefore  a  thoroughly  equipped  artist ;  Flau- 
bert, who  dreamt  only  of  oriental  tales  vast 
as  the  frescoes  of  a  cathedral,  streaming  with 
colour  and  set  with  dazzling  stones,  who 
studied  a  Normandy  village  with  the  keen  eye 
and  the  dissecting  scalpel  of  his  father ;  Flau- 
bert, who,  in  spite  of  somewhat  faulty  language, 
had  a  wonderful  gift  for  style  and  for  all  kinds 
of  it ; — Flaubert  was  better  endowed  than 
Balzac  in  truth,  since  he  too  knew  how  to 
create  types,  and  since  Mme.  Bovary,  M. 
Bovary,  Homais,  and  Frederic  Moreau  may  be 
looked  on  as  imperishable.  But  I  must  con- 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      253 

fess  too  that  fecundity  is  also  a  great  gift,  and 
that  Flaubert,  though  he  had  to  an  incredible 
degree  the  faculty  of  creating  types,  and  did 
indeed  produce  some  astonishing  ones,  created 
after  all  very  few,  for  he  thrust  into  the  living 
world  no  more  than  the  four  whom  I  have 
just  mentioned ;  for  however  devoutly  and 
ingeniously  the  matter  be  put,  I  can  hardly 
admit  at  the  moment  of  writing  that  Mme. 
Arnoux  and  Salammbo  are  truly  alive.  The 
immense  superiority  of  c  creating  a  world  '  (to 
fall  in  for  once  with  the  exaggerated  formulae 
of  ecstatic  criticism)  remains  most  indisputably 
with  Balzac,  though,  as  an  artist,  Flaubert 
must  no  doubt  be  preferred  to  him. 

Le  Sage  wrote  in  the  most  beautiful  classical 
language  ever  known  and  related  things  wonder- 
fully well,  better  even  than  Voltaire,  and  that 
is  saying  a  good  deal.  He  wrote  in  a  style 
that  is  neither  too  fast  nor  too  slow,  that 
neither  drags  nor  leaps  along,  that  is  not 
monotonous,  a  style  so  perfectly  obedient  to 
the  will,  that  we  do  not  notice  in  reading  him 
— what  is  the  very  acme  of  art— how  well  he 
tells  a  story,  and  become  aware  of  it  only  in 
retrospect.  As  far  as  that  is  concerned,  he  is 
undoubtedly  above  Balzac.  As  a  realist  he 


254  BALZAC 

has  an  excellent  sense  of  truth,  of  likelihood, 
of  the  average,  that  is  neither  overstrained  in 
one  direction  nor  in  the  other,  of  man  as  he 
really  is,  without  any  artistic  deformation, 
without  any  refraction  from  the  author's  mind. 
And  if  it  be  true,  in  accordance  with  a  defini- 
tion which  seems  to  me  to  be  not  of  the  worst, 
that  art  is  truth  seen  through  a  temperament, 
it  would  seem  as  though  Le  Sage  had  no 
temperament  at  all ;  and,  therefore,  Le  Sage 
is  the  very  model  of  what  a  realist  should  be. 
No  one  ever  answered  better  than  he  to  Sten- 
dhal's so  happy  and  picturesque  definition — '  A 
novel  is  like  a  looking-glass  dawdling  along  a 
road.5  He  excelled  in  silhouettes  :  a  thousand 
tiny  people  whom  he  comes  across  on  his  '  road ' 
are  set  down  in  astounding  perfection,  and  they 
are  quite  alive.  But  to  him  too,  even  more 
than  to  Flaubert,  the  gift  of  creating  types  was 
granted  in  but  niggardly  measure.  He  has 
only  one  such,  Gil  Bias  himself,  most  extra- 
ordinary, imperishable,  brimful  of  life,  of 
several  diverse  lives  which  are  not  incoherent 
nor  ill-assorted,  but  harmonious ;  so  com- 
pletely does  he  seem,  as  he  indeed  is,  the  por- 
trait of  the  civilised  man,  of  the  modern  social 
man  with  his  qualities  and  faults,  in  all  his 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH      255 

complex  truth  and  yet  with  a  great  simplicity 
in  his  main  features.  But  he  stands  alone, 
although  surrounded  by  the  thousand  interest- 
ing silhouettes  just  mentioned ;  he  is  the  only 
one  that  is  a  great  portrait,  the  full-length 
canvas  of  a  master. 

La  Bruyere,  as  a  painter  of  manners  and 
characters,  is  very  great.  Too  much  has  been 
made  of  his  abstract  quality,  of  his  being  an 
inimitable  artist  who  drew  abstract  pictures. 
He  is  often  that,  after  the  manner  of  his  age  ; 
but  he  is  far  from  being  always  so.  He  '  made 
things  live  '  much  oftener  than  is  believed.  I 
have  already  cited  in  the  course  of  these  pages 
the  rich  man  and  the  poor  man ;  there  are 
plenty  of  others  :  Cydias,  who  besides  being 
a  portrait  is  recognised  by  the  reader  as  being 
an  actor  on  the  stage  or  a  man  of  letters  in 
the  world,  the  two  things  being  in  effect  just 
the  same ;  there  is  Onuphre  dressing  himself,  the 
way  he  walks,  how  he  behaves  in  church,  the 
air  he  puts  on  when  he  wants  to  get  something 
out  of  somebody  and  wants  to  be  asked  in- 
stead, thus  transforming  the  seeker  for  favour 
into  its  conferrer ;  how  he  looks  when  he 
is  running  somebody  down,  and  how,  while 
smiling  or  sighing,  he  slanders  and  calumniates 


256  BALZAC 

by  his  very  silence  :  I  see  all  that  ever  so 
clearly,  his  face  only  being  unknown  to  me  ; 
but  that  is  in  truth  because  I  have  no  need  of 
it.  In  the  same  way  I  see  Arsene,  who  from 
his  lofty  mind  looks  down  on  men,  and  who, 
seeing  them  so  far  off,  is  as  it  were  frightened 
by  their  smallness  ;  and  no  physical  feature 
could  give  me  a  better  idea  of  his  haughtiness, 
the  turn  of  his  head,  his  '  distant '  look,  his 
inward  glance  and  a  sort  of  sacred  mystery  in 
which  his  whole  being  is  wrapped.  And  I 
might  quote  many  another.  A  good  many 
portraits  of  La  Bruyere  are  living  and  concrete, 
some  because  they  are  deliberately  and  ex- 
plicitly so,  others  because,  though  psychical 
portraits,  they  necessarily  suggest,  and  with- 
out the  reader  contributing  thereto,  a  physical 
effigy  ;  and  these  are  not  the  least  picturesque. 
The  greatest  painter  of  the  men  of  his  age,  of 
the  multitude  of  men  of  his  age,  is  La  Bruyere. 
We  may  add,  if  you  will,  that,  as  some  one  has 
said  with  good  reason,  Balzac  is  prophetic  and 
painted  men  who  were  to  live  between  1850 
and  1900.  In  the  same  way  La  Bruyere  fore- 
told the  habits  of  life  under  the  Regency,  set 
forth  how  a  pious  man  is  one  who,  under  an 
atheistic  king,  will  turn  a  theist,  guessed  the 


BALZAC  AFTER  HIS  DEATH   257 

enormous  importance  that  was  to  devolve  on 
men  of  wealth  and  influence,  and  often  pro- 
ceeded by  the  most  magisterial  anticipations. 

It  is  to  La  Bruyere  that  we  must  compare 
Balzac,  setting  aside  the  fact  that  they  had 
both  of  them,  in  common  with  all  men  who 
watch  things  very  closely,  a  heavy  substratum 
of  misanthropy.  But  I  must  admit  that  there 
is  not  in  all  La  Bruyere  a  giant  like  Grandet, 
Hulot,  or  Philippe  Brideau.  Every  time  Bal- 
zac shows  forth  his  great  monsters  we  always 
feel  bound  to  say  to  him,  '  In  spite  of  all  your 
faults,  and  though  it  is  very  hard  to  put  up 
with  you,  yet  there  was  indeed  inside  you  such 
a  force  of  nature  as  must  even  have  surprised 
itself  a  little.' 

It  seems  as  though  Balzac  had  set  out  to 
prove  that  Buffon,  when  he  said  that  well- 
written  works  were  the  only  ones  that  could 
reach  posterity,  did  not  know  what  he  was 
talking  about.  It  seems  as  though  he  were 
determined  to  give  him  the  lie.  And  it  is  true 
that  Buffon  is  wrong ;  and  it  is  true  that  pos- 
terity— and  rightly  so — welcomes  with  almost 
equal  favour  the  great  artist  in  language  and 
the  great  inventor  of  ideas  who  has  no  style  at 
all  (Auguste  Comte),  and  the  great  creator  of 


258  BALZAC 

living  things  who  has  no  style,  or  rather  one 
that  is  generally  tedious.  Posterity  prefers  to 
welcome,  it  welcomes  far  more  willingly,  a 
great  stylist ;  for  posterity  is  artistic,  let  us 
be  quite  sure  of  that,  and  never  forget  it ;  but 
it  does  not  drive  away  others  a  priori,  and 
gives  them  as  good  lodging  as  they  deserve. 
For  the  question  is  enrichment  by  beauty,  by 
thought,  by  life,  of  the  inheritance,  the  ever 
needy  inheritance,  of  mankind. 

And  yet  young  men  are  requested  not  to 
get  it  into  their  heads,  as  they  may  very  well 
feel  encouraged  to  do,  that  it  is  enough  to 
write  badly  in  order  to  become  a  second  Balzac. 


INDEX 


ABOUT,       EDMOND,     quotations 

from,  221,  222. 
Abrantes,  Duchess  <T,  13. 
^schylus,  128,  140. 
Albert  Savarus,  1 ,  68,  163,  167. 
Amiel,  93,  134. 
Andrieux,  8. 
Apuleius,  175. 
Arlincourt,  M.  d',  175. 
Augier,  128 ;  Balzac's  influence 

on,  234,  235. 
Avare,  I',  145,  156. 

BAGRATION,  MADAME  DE,  12. 
Ballanche,  23,  166  and  n. 
Balssa,     Fran§ois    (see     Balzac, 

Fran§ois). 

Balzac,  Francois,  1-3,  5-7. 
Madame,  1-3,  5,  6,  11,  15, 

16,  23. 

Honore     de,     origin     and 


early  years,  1-6  ;  literary  am- 
bitions, 6-8 ;  relations  with 
Madame  de  Berny,  8-11,  16, 
17  ;  early  publications,  9,  10  ; 
failures  in  business,  10, 11, 17  ; 
entry  into  society,  12  ;  literary 
friends  of,  12,  13 ;  relations 
with  Madame  de  Castries,  13, 
14,193;  relations  with  Madame 
Hanska,  15, 16,  18, 19,  23,  25; 
influences  of  provincial  France 
on,  15  ;  influences  of  occult- 
ism on,  16, 64  ;  dramatic  work 
of,  17,  18,  20  ;  illness  of,  20- 
23  ;  marriage  to  Madame  Han- 


ska,  23;   death  of,  23;   con- 
nection with  French  Academy, 
23,  24  ;  appearance  and  char- 
acter of,  24-32,  182  ;  political 
opinions  of,  28,  36-44 ;  friends 
of,  28  ;     Lamartine's  opinion 
of,  29,  30 ;  methods  of  work- 
ing,   30-32;    philosophy    and 
religion  of,  34-36;   criticisms 
of  contemporary  writers,   44, 
45,  74 ;  defects  as  a  thinker, 
48 ;    views     on     life,    49-73 ; 
powers  of  psychology,  56,  57. 
Work   of. — Lack   of  intellec- 
tual culture  in,  33  ;   import- 
ance of  money  and  ambition  in, 
57-61,  66  ;  originality  and  ob- 
servation in,  62,  63,  86,  92-96, 
152  ;    views  of  press  in,  63  ; 
poetical   realism   in,   64,    65  ; 
comparison    of  with   Tolstoi, 
65  ;  views  of  love  in,  66,  67  ; 
knowledge  of  life  in,  68,  69 ; 
knowledge  of  Paris  and  Pari- 
siens  shown  in,  69-72  ;   Saint- 
Beuve's  criticism  of,  73,  213- 
216,  227,  228,  233 ;  faults  of 
construction  in,  74 ;  garrulity 
of  description  in,  75,  76 ;  irre- 
levant dissertations  in,  77-84, 
89-91 ;    comparison    of    with 
George  Sand,    77,  149,    163, 
251,    252  ;  methods   and   ex- 
amples of  character  creation 
in,  98-102  ;  aptness  of  nomen- 
clature in,  120-122  ;  lodging 

259 


260 


BALZAC 


of    characters     in,    123-128  ; 
genius  for    character-drawing 
in,  128-137,  195,  196  ;  simpli- 
city  of  character   studies  in, 
137-140,    143  ;     addiction    to 
general  types  of  character  in, 
44;  absence  of  complex  types  of 
character  in,   145  ;    evolution 
of    characters     ill,     146-162 ; 
failure  of  complex  characters 
in,    160-162  ;     true  and   base 
realism  in,  164-173,  175,  182 ; 
mysticism  in,  173-175  ;  trashy 
romanticism    in,     175,    182 ; 
realism  in,  179 ;  brutality  in, 
180-182  ;    vulgarity    in,    182- 
185;     high   life  in,    185-194, 
201 ;  occasional  excellencies  of 
style  in,  196-200,  217  ;  usual 
execrable    style    in,  201-209, 
217  ;    apt   copying    in,    210 ; 
Nisard's  criticism  of,  216,  217  ; 
moral  influences  and  effects  of, 
219-223  ;  criticism  of  by  Ed- 
mond  About,  221 ;  influence  of 
on  literature,  223;  influence  of 
upon  romanticism  and  realism, 
225;  popularity  of,  225,  227- 
229 ;  immediate   effects  of  on 
literary  successors,  229,  230  ; 
article  on  by  Taine,  230-233  ; 
influence  of  on  George  Sand, 
233,    234  ;     influence    of   on 
drama,     234-236  ;     debt     of 
Flaubert  to,    236-239;     com- 
parison    of    with     Alphonse 
Daudet,  240,  241 ;   with  Gon- 
court  brothers,  241,  242  ;  with 
Emile  Zola,  242-245  ;  with  de 
Maupassant,  245,   246 ;    with 
M.    Bourget,    246-249;     with 
Saint-Beuve,  250,   251  ;   with 
Flaubert,  252,  253  ;    with  Le 
Sage,  253-255  ;  with  La  Bru- 
yere,  255-257  ;    extracts  from 
letters,     7,    13 ;      quotations 
from,  35,  36,  38-48,  54, 55,  60, 


61,  64,  65,  69,  70,  72,  76,  79- 
84,  100,  101,  102-106,  108, 
110,112-118,123-127,130,131, 
184-192,  195-207,  209-212. 

Balzac,  Laure  (see  Surville,  Ma- 
dame). 

—  Laurence  (nee  Montzaigle, 
Madame). 

Baudelaire,  229. 

Beranger,  28. 

Bernard,  Charles  de,  229. 

Berny,  Gabriel  de,  8. 

Madame  de,  early  life  of,  8  ; 

relations  with  Balzac,  8-12  ; 
influences  over  Balzac,  9  ;  her 
separation  from  her  husband, 
16  ;  her  death,  and  its  effect 
on  Balzac,  17. 

Blondet,  37. 

Boileau,  90. 

Bossuet,  141. 

Bourdaloue,  215  and  n.,  217. 

Bourget,  M.,  compared  with 
Balzac,  246-249. 

Brunetiere,  criticisms  of  Balzac, 
68  and  n.,  192, 193  ;  le  Roman 
Naturaliste,  178  n.;  quotation 
from  Honore  de  Balsac,  192, 
193  ;  critical  opinions  of,  214, 
217,  230,  231. 

Buffon,  257. 

CANORA,  83. 

Castries,  La   Duchesse   de,  13, 
14,  15,  193. 
Due  de,  14. 


Chabert,  le  Colonel,  74. 
Champfleury,  criticism  of,  229, 

230. 
Chateaubriand,  24,  26,  209,  242, 

249. 

Chouans,  les,  11,  12. 
Colombes,  Michael,  83. 
Comedie  Humaine,  la,  97. 
Comte,  Auguste,  257. 
Contes  drolatiques,  criticism  of, 

210,  217. 


INDEX 


261 


Corneille,  2,  95,  128,  140,  237, 
249. 

Cousine  Bette,  la,  portrait  of 
Madame  Francois  Balzac  in, 
3 ;  rapid  writing  of,  31 ;  heroic 
veterans  of,  53 ;  criticism  of 
Atala  in,  168,  169  ;  quota- 
tions from,  60,  61,  82-84,  168. 

Cousin  Pans,  le,  74. 

Cure  de  Villaye,  89. 

DANTE,  83. 

Daudet,  Alphonse,  Tartarin,  j 
207  «•  ;  criticism  of  and  com-  i 
parison  with  Balzac,  240,  241.  ! 

Derniere  Incarnation  de  Vautrin,  \ 
166,  168. 

Descartes,  158. 

Dickens,  Charles,  178,  241. 

Dumas,  Alexander,  23. 

(the  younger),  genius   of, 

128 ;    Balzac's  influence    on, 
234-236. 

Duranty,  230. 

Diirer,  Albert,  83. 

Ecole  des  Menages,  I',  17- 
Eliot,  George,  178  and  n. 
Employes,  les,  68. 
Epaminondas,  140,  141. 
Essarts,   M.    Fabre   des,  Hiero- 

phantes,  16. 

Eugenie  Grandet,  59,  74. 
Euripides,  128,  140. 

FAGUET,  M.,  192  n. 
Feinmeubandonnee,  /a,criticism  of 

and  quotations  from,  189-192. 
Femme  de  trente  Ans,  criticism 

of  and  quotations  from,   169- 

173,  198-200. 
Feuillet,  Octave,  249. 
Filles  aux  Yeux  d'or,  la,  180. 
Fitz-James,  Duke  of,  14. 
Flaubert,  Gustave,  his  theory  of 

art,  89,    129;    superiority  of 

taste  compared  with   Balzac, 


164  ;  criticisms  of,  178,  179 ; 
further  comparisons  with  Bal- 
zac, 210,  236-239,  252,  253  ; 
attitude  to  romanticism,  243 ; 
influence  on  Maupassant,  245  ; 
criticism  of  Madame  Bovary 
by  Edmond  About,  221. 

Fontenelle,  2  and  n.,  27. 

France,  Anatole,  86,  228. 

Furetiere,  179. 

GABORIAU,  166. 

Gautier,  his  friendship  for  Bal- 
zac, 28 ;  Balzac's  love  for, 
135  ;  his  style,  148,  210,  227- 

Gay,  Sophie,  12  and  n. 

Delphine     (see    Girardin, 


Madame  de). 

Giotto,  113. 

Girardin,  Madame  de,  12  and  n., 
28,  29. 

Goethe,  128. 

Goncourt  brothers,  debt  to  Bal- 
zac, 240 ;  compared  with 
Balzac,  241,  242. 

Goujon,  Jean,  83. 

Gozlan,  Leon,  28. 

Grenadiere,  la,  69. 

Guinon,  M.  Albert,  quotation 
from,  145,  146. 

Guyonnet-Merville,  M.,  6. 

HANSKA,  M.,  16,  18. 

Madame,  meeting  with 

Balzac,  16 ;  relations  with 
Balzac,  16-23  ;  extracts  from 
a  letter  to  her  daughter,  21, 
22  ;  Balzac's  fidelity  to,  25. 

'  Heredia,'  quotation  from,  58. 

Histoire  des  Treixe,  166. 

Homer,  84,  90,  92,  94, 128, 140, 
238. 

Hugo,  Victor,  17,  23,  28,  31, 
32,  95,  207,  210,  249. 

IBSEN,  128. 


262 


BALZAC 


Illusions  perdues,  portraits  of 
journalists  in,  18,  53 ;  criti- 
cisms of,  66,  89,  167,  168. 

Innocent  m.,  47. 

Intermediate  des  Chercheurs  et 
Curieux,  21. 

JACQUINET,  231. 

Junot,  Madame  (see  Abrantes, 
Duchess  d'). 

KNOTHE,  M.,  22. 

LA  BRUYERE,  quotation  from, 
57 ;  compared  as  a  genius 
with  Balzac,  61,  92,  98,  217, 
251,  257  ;  qualities  as  a  realist 
and  observer  criticised,  178, 
179,  231,  255,  256. 

La  Chausse'e,  224. 

Lafontaine,  235. 

Lamartine,  quotation  from  de- 
scribing Balzac,  29,  30 ; 
quotation  from,  134  ;  Sainte- 
Beuve's  criticism  of,  215, 
216. 

La  Touche,  12,  17. 

Laurent,  M.,  11. 

Lemaitre,  Frederic,  17,  18,  243. 

Lepitre,  M.,  5. 

Le  Poitivin,  9,  10. 

Le  Sage,  61,  239 ;  compared 
with  Balzac,  251,  253-255. 

Louis  Lambert,  5,  173. 

Louis  Philippe,  16,  17,  60,  69, 
193. 

Saint,  141. 

Loyson,  25,  26. 

Lucan,  239. 

Lucretius,  226,  228. 

Lys  dans  la  Vallee,  le,  description 
of  schooldays  in,  4,  5  ;  quota- 
tions from,  "78,  174,  175,  209  ; 
criticisms  of,  162,  167,  173, 
174,  183,  208,  209,  232. 

MALHERBE,  226. 


Mardtre,  la,  20. 

Marcus  Aurelius,  141. 

Marie  Antoinette,  8. 

Marivaux,  61,  239. 

Massillon,  129. 

Maupassant,    Guy    de,    literary 

theory  of,  89  ;  debt  to  Balzac, 

240,     245  ;     compared     with 

Balzac,  245,  246. 
Medecin  de  Campagne,  2,  89. 
Menage  de  Garcon,  criticism  of, 

188. 

Me'ny,  28. 

Mercadet  le  Faiseur,  20. 
Merimee,  227. 
Metzu,  108. 
Milton,  83. 
Mirabeau,  30. 
Mniszech,  Count,  19. 
Madame  de,  21. 


Moliere,  84,  92,  94,  97,  98,  128, 
140,  144,  156,  157,  217,  226, 
228,  231,  235,  249. 

Monnier,  Henri,  12,  28. 

Montaigne,  219,  226,  228. 

Montesquieu,  42  and  n.,  227. 

Montzaigle,  M.  de,  4. 

Madame  de,  4. 


NAPOLEON  i. ,  13. 

Newton,  158. 

Nicole,  215  and  n. 

Nisard,  Desire,  quotation  criti- 
cising Balzac  from  Histoire  de 
la  Litterature  franfaise,  216 
and  n.,  217,  240. 

OFFENBACH,  Grande  Dnchesse  de 
Gerolstein,  167  and  n. 

PAGANINI,  84. 

Pamela  Giraud,  18. 

Pascal,  Balzac's  opinion  of,  140, 

143 ;    quotations    from,    140, 

141,  142. 

Passion  dans  le  Desert,  une,  180. 
Peau  de  Chagrin,  la,  pictures  of 


INDEX 


263 


Balzac's  early  life  in,   6,  7 ; 

criticism  of,  167. 
Pere   Goriot,   criticisms    of,  75, 

76, 160-162  ;  quotations  from, 

76,  78-80,  161. 
Peter  the  Great,  47. 
Petits  Bourgeois,  168. 
Petronius,  175,  213. 
Phidias,  83. 

Physiologic  du  Mariage,  la,  12. 
Pierre  Grassou,  133. 
Pindar,  238. 
Plautus,  147. 
Polycletus,  83. 
Pomereul,  M.  de,  11. 
Pongerville,  M.  de,  23. 
Praxiteles,  83. 
Prudhomme,  Joseph,  175. 
Puget,  Loi'sa,  165. 
Pujet,  83. 

RABELAIS,  226. 

Racine,  128,  140,  155,  177,  178, 

226,  231,  249. 
Raphael,  81. 

Re'camier,  Madame,  166  n. 
Rembrandt,  108. 
Ressources  de  Qninola,  les,  18. 
Restif,  175,  244  and  n. 
Revue  Parisienne,  17. 
Rezvuszka,   Mile,   (see   Hanska, 

Madame). 
Ronsard,  226. 
Rostand,  58. 
Rousseau,  36,  60,  214,  219,  227, 

229. 

SAINTE  -  BEUVE,  13,  17,  23 ; 
article  on  Loyson,  25  ;  Balzac's 
criticism  of,  26,  44,  45,  173 ; 
his  criticisms  of  Balzac,  26, 
73,  140,  169,  183,  184,  192, 
194,  212-215,  227,  228,  233; 
Balzac's  dislike  of,  135  ;  ex- 
tract from  an  admonishment 
to  Taine,  183,  184;  extract 
from  memorial  article  on 


Balzac,  213-215  ;  his  criticism 
of  Lamartine,  215, 216 ;  extract 
from  Causerietf  du  Lundi  (vol. 
iv.),  Histoire  de  la  Restaura- 
tion,  215-216  ;  compared  with 
Balzac,  250,  251. 

Saint-Simon,  150. 

Sallambier,  Laure  (see  Balzac, 
Madame). 

Sand,  George,  interest  of  in 
Balzac,  12,  28  ;  Balzac's  criti- 
cisms of,  44,  45,  74  ;  her  work 
compared  with  that  of  Balzac, 
69,  77,  122,  149,  163,  173, 
251,  252;  literary  methods  of, 
147  ;  influence  of  Balzac  on, 
233,  234;  influence  of  on 
present-day  novelists,  249. 

Sandeau,  Jules,  25,  27  and  n., 
235,  249. 

Scarron,  179,  239. 

Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Province,  15. 

Scott,  Walter,  34. 

Scribe,  234. 

Scude'ry,  Madeleine,  fAstrce, 
219  and  n. 

Seraphita,  16,  64,  173. 

Shakespeare,  83,  92,  94,  97,  128, 
137,  140. 

Sophocles,  128,  140. 

Soulie',  Fre'de'ric,  27  and  //., 
166. 

Splendeurs  et  Miscres  des  Cour- 
tisanes,  180. 

Stendhal,  Memoires  d'un  Tourigtt, 
75 ;  attitude  towardscrimiuals, 
150 ;  compared  with  Balzac, 
198,  221,  227,248;  Jacquinet's 
opinion  of,  231. 

Sue,  Eugene,  17,  166,  235. 

Surville,  M.,  4,  8. 

M.  (the  elder),  8. 

Madame,  4,  7. 

Swedenborg,  64. 

TACITUS,  215. 

Taine,   on   Balzac's    birthplace, 


264 


BALZAC 


2,  3  ;  admonishment  from 
Sainte-Beuve  to,  182  ;  quota- 
tion from  in  praise  of  Balzac, 
208  ;  appreciation  of,  222, 
223  ;  article  of  on  Balzac,  2-30- 
232  ;  quotations  from,  232, 
242. 

Tasso,  84. 

Tenebreuse  Affaire,  line,  166. 

Thiers,  17. 

Tolstoi,  65,  178,  179. 

T  opffer,  Mont  Saint  -  Bernard, 
209. 

Troubert,  48. 


Ursule  Mirouet,  16,  56,  64,  74. 

VATOUT,  24. 
Vautrin,  17. 

Vendome,  College  of,  4. 
Verres,  149  and  n. 
Verville,  Beroald  de,  175. 
Villele,  M.  de,  38. 
Virgil,  83,  89,  239. 
Voltaire,  36,  37,  219,  227,  228, 
253. 

ZOLA,    EMILE,    compared     with 
Balzac,  240,  242-245. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  CONSTABLE,  Printer!  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


•      "     III! 

000  046  408 


